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GIFT  OF 
Walter  Morr-ls  Hart 


ENGLISH 
PROSE  COMPOSITION 

WITH   ILLUSTRATIVE   EXAMPLES 


By 
EDWARD  FULTON,  Ph.D. 

Associate  Professor  of  English  in 
the  University  of  Illinois 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

1911 


<^5 


GIFT 

COPTRIQHT,   1911, 
BY 

HENEY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


THE   OUINN   A    BODEN    CO.    PRESS 
RAHWAY,   N,  J. 


PREFACE 

In  the  main,  the  present  work  is  a  revision  of  the 
author  ^s  Rhetoric  and  Composition,  published  some 
five  or  six  years  ago.  A  radical  change  of  plan  and 
the  addition  of  a  number  of  specimens  of  the  different 
types  of  composition  have  seemed,  however,  to  justify 
the  use  of  a  new  title. 

The  author  wishes  to  repeat  here  his  earlier  acknowl- 
edgment of  obligations  to  other  writers  in  the  same 
field.  He  wishes  also  to  express  his  appreciation  of  the 
courtesy  of  the  various  publishers  who  have  kindly 
permitted  him  to  take  illustrative  material  from  works 
copjn'ighted  or  authoritatively  published  by  them. 


MT76255 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.arGhive.org/details/englishprosecompOOfultrich 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 
GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

PA6B 

1.  Writing  An  Art 1 

Imitating  good  models— The  study  and  application 
of  principles. 

2.  Writing  Implies  Thinking 3 

Composition  a  building  up  process — Sources  of  the 
writer's  material — Individuality  in  writing — Import- 
ance of  the  habit  of  observing  things. 

3.  Planning  the  Composition 6 

How  to  secure  unity— How  to  secure  coherence— 
The  management  of  the  beginning  and  the  ending. 

4.  Paragraphing 13 

The  function  of  the  paragraph — The  normal  para- 
graph scheme — Developing  the  topic — Unity  and 
coherence  in  the  paragraph — The  beginning  and  the 
ending— Length  of  the  paragraph— Providing  for 
transitions. 

5.  The  Structure  of  the  Sentence       ....      28 

Unity  in  the  sentence— Length  of  the  sentence— Co- 
herence in  the  sentence — Typical  causes  of  incoher- 
ence— Interdependence  of  sentences  in  the  para- 
graph— The  need  of  variety — Emphasis  in  the  sen- 
tence— The  use  of  the  periodic  sentence. 

6.  The  Choice  op  Words 43 

For  clearness— For  accuracy— For  force. 

V 


vi  CONTENTS 

PART  II 

WRITING  WHICH  AIMS   TO  ENLIGHTEN   OR  TO 
CONVINCE 

I 

PAGE 

General  characteristics 51 

II— EXPOSITION 

1.  Nature  and  Purpose  of  Expository  Writing         .  53 

2.  The  Outline  as  an  Aid  in  Exposition       ...  54 

Specimen  outlines. 

3.  Exposition  Which  Aims  to  Define  or  to  Classify  .  58 

The  logical  definition— Classification. 

4.  Descriptive  and  Illustrative  Exposition        .        .  70 

The  description  of  a  type-form— The  explanation  of 
a  process — The  illustration  of  a  general  law. 

5.  Literary  Criticism 74 

The  criticism  of  a  classic— The  book  review. 

III-SPECIMENS  op  EXPOSITION 

The  Great  Author      ....        Cardinal  Newman  76 

The  Idea  of  a  Gentleman    .        .        .        Cardinal  Newman  77 

Japanese  Ancestor  Worship        .        .        .    Lafcadio  Hearn  80 

The  Kinds  of  Literature     .        .        .         W.  H.  Crawshaw  81 

The  Influence-of  the  Press  in  America        .         James  Bryce  84 

Ihe  Gossamer  Spider          ....     Charles  Darwin  87 

How  to  Make  New  Varieties  of  Plants  The  Garden  Magazine  90 

Protective  Coloring  Among  Animals   .        .      A.  R.  Wallace  94 

Soil  Wastage  Through  Tillage     .        .        .         N.  S.  Shaler  96 

The  Formation  of  Vapor  Drops  .        .        Frank  H.  Bigelow  98 

A  Sailor's  Work R.  H.  Dana,  Jr.  99 

Why  Mies  Gather  on  the  Screen  Door       .     E.  T.  Brewster  101 

The  Law  of  Economy  in  Style     .        .        .         G.  H.  Lewes  102 

Goldsmith William  Hazlitt  106 

Potash  &  Perlmutter  (Review  of)       .        James  Oppenheim  108 


CONTENTS  vii 

IV— ARGUMENTATION 

PAGE 

1.  Nature  and  Purpose  op  Argumentative  Writing  111 

2.  Conviction  and  Persuasion 113 

3.  The  Proposition 117 

4.  Defining  the  Issues 119 

5.  Proof  AND  Evidence 125 

The  nature  of  proof — The  kinds  of  evidence. 

6.  Refutation 132 

Fallacies— Reductio  ad  absurdum. 

7.  The  Brief  as  an  Aid  in  Argumentation  .        .        .136 

Specimen  briefs. 

8.  Deduction  and  Induction 144 

The  syllogism — The  stages  in  inductive  reasoning. 

v-specimens  of  argumentation 

SJwuld  the  Panama  Canal  be  Fortijiedf      .  The  Outlook  157 

Fortifying  the  Canal The  Nation  162 

The  Income  Tax  Amendment       .        .        .  Norris  Brown  165 

The  Cause  of  Cleavage  in  Slates         .         .  John  Tyndall  176 

PARI  III 

WRITING  WHICH  AIMS  TO  PLEASE 
I 

General  characteristics  of  writing  that  appeals  to 
the  Feelings — Expressiveness  in  the  choice  of  words 
—Adaptation  of  words  to  each  other         .        .        .     185 

II— DESCRIPTION 

1.  Nature  and  Purpose  of  Descriptive  Writing       .    191 

2.  Methods  of  Attaining  Effectiveness  in  Description    196 

A  comprehensive  grasp  of  the  object  essential— 
Suggestiveness  in  the  selection  and  arrangement  of 
details — Vividness  in  the  choice  of  words. 


vUi  CONTENTS 

III-SPECIMENS  OF  DESCRIPTION 

PAGE 

Charles  Lamb T.  N.  Talfourd  213 

Jfm  Tox Charles  Dickens  314 

An  English  Stage  Coach  Driver        .        Washington  Irving  215 

The  Interior  of  St.  Mark's,  Venice    .        .          John  Ruskin  216 

A  Sunday  in  London         .        .        .        Washington  Irving  218 

An  Iceberg R.  H.  Dana,  Jr.  220 

The  Sea  Fogs R.  L.  Stevenson  221 

The  Grand  Caflon  of  the  Colorado     .        .    John  Burroughs  227 

IV— NARRATION 

1.    Natube  of  Narrative  Writing 233 

3.    Setting 234 

3.  Characterization 236 

4.  Action 243 

5.  Order  op  Events  and  Movement       ....  248 

V— SPECIMENS  OF  NARRATION 

Franklin's  Account  of  His  Early  Studies    Benjamin  Franklin  256 

The  Chase Francis  Parkman  263 

Bip  Van  Winkle          ....     Washington  Irving  269 

The  Ambitious  Quest  .        .        .         Nathaniel  Hawthorne  287 

EXERCISES ■      ...  299 

INDEX 315 


ENGLISH  PROSE  COMPOSITION 


PAET  I 
GENEEAL  PRINCIPLES 

1.   WRITING  AN  ART 

To  write  effectively  is  an  art  that  requires  skill  and 
practice.  No  man  learns  to  write  quite  as  he  learns 
to  talk, — that  is,  by  instinctively  imitating  his  elders. 
He  must  study  the  art  and  consciously  direct  his  prac- 
tice toward  the  attainment  of  the  end  he  has  in  view. 
To  a  certain  extent,  to  be  sure,  every  one  who  learns 
the  art  of  writing  does  go  through  a  sort  of  uncon- 
scious imitative  process.  '^  In  any  language  that  has 
been  used  for  centuries  as  a  literary  instrument,  the 
beginner,''  as  Professor  Minto  says,  ''  cannot  begin 
as  if  he  were  the  first  in  the  field.  Whatever  he  pro- 
poses to  write,  be  it  essay  or  sermon  or  leading  article, 
history  or  fiction,  there  are  hundreds  of  things  of 
the  same  kind  in  existence,  some  of  which  he  must 
have  read  and  cannot  help  taking  more  or  less  as 
patterns  or  models. ' '  ^  But  this  unconscious  imita- 
tion does  not,  as  a  rule,  carry  a  writer  very  far  to- 
ward the  mastery  of  his  art.  Study  and  consciously 
directed  practice  are  as  indispensable  in  acquiring 
mastery  in  this,  as  in  every  other  art. 

*  Principles  of  Prose  Composition,  p.  9. 


2  , , . . .  <     ;    , ,    GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

'the  general  end  of  all  writing  is  the  communica- 
tion of  thought  and  emotion.  To  communicate 
thought  or  emotion,  now,  one  must  use  a  language 
that  is  intelligible  to  those  addressed.  Hence  the 
ability  to  write  well  presupposes  a  knowledge  of 
the  facts  of  the  language  one  uses, — that  is  to  say,  its 
vocabulary  and  its  grammar.  If  the  mere  communi- 
cation of  thought  or  emotion  were  all  that  the  writer 
ever  concerned  himself  about,  little  more  would  be 
required  of  him  than  a  knowledge  of  such  facts  as  a 
dictionary  and  a  grammar  might  teach  him.  Simply 
to  let  others  know  what  we  think  or  feel  is  not,  how- 
ever, our  only  object  in  writing.  We  wish,  usually, 
to  produce  some  definite  effect  upon  the  reader,  to 
stimulate  his  imagination,  to  stir  his  feelings,  or  to 
Influence  his  actions  or  beliefs ;  but  to  do  this  by  means 
of  the  written  word  is  an  art,  and  an  art  that  must 
be  cultivated. 

One  way  to  cultivate  this  art  is  by  selecting  ex- 
amples of  effective  writing  and  deliberately  imitating 
them.  Stevenson,  for  instance,  attained  his  mastery 
of  the  pen,  as  he  tells  us,  only  by  dint  of  constant 
and  severe  practice  and  the  imitating  of  good  models : 


"All  through  boyhood  and  youth  I  was  known  and 
pointed  out  for  the  pattern  of  an  idler;  and  yet  I  was 
always  busy  on  my  own  private  end,  which  was  to 
learn  to  write.  As  I  walked,  my  mind  was  busy  fitting 
what  I  saw  by  the  roadside.  I  would  either  read,  or 
a  pencil  and  a  penny  version-book  would  be  in  my  hand, 
to  note  down  the  feature  of  the  scene  or  commemorate  some 
halting  stanzas.     Thus  I  lived  with  words.     And  what  I 


WRITING  IMPLIES  THINKING  3 

thus  wrote  was  for  no  ulterior  use,  it  was  written  con- 
sciously for  practice.  It  was  not  so  much  that  I  wished  to 
be  an  author  ...  as  that  I  had  vowed  that  I  would  learn 
to  write.  .  .  .  Whenever  I  read  a  book  or  a  passage  that 
particularly  pleased  me,  in  which  a  thing  was  said  or  an 
effect  rendered  with  propriety,  in  which  there  was  either 
some  conspicuous  force  or  happy  distinction  in  the  style, 
I  must  sit  down  at  once  and  set  myself  to  ape  that 
quality."  ^ 

Another  way  to  learn  to  write  is  by  studying  the 
principles  underlying  effective  discourse  and  follow- 
ing them  out  in  practice.  Hence  the  use  of  the  text- 
book in  composition.  This,  perhaps,  is  the  safest  way 
for  beginners;  but  more  advanced  students  ought  to 
try  both  ways.  The  study  and  conscious  imitation 
of  good  models  gives  one  a  standard  by  which  one 
may  measure  his  achievements,  and  without  a  stand- 
ard of  some  kind  to  serve  as  a  guide  or  point  of 
reference,  it  is  difficult  to  know  whether  one  is  making 
progress  or  not.  The  young  student  is  therefore  ad- 
vised to  begin  with  the  study  of  a  few  general  prin- 
ciples, which  are  best  mastered  from  a  text-book,  and 
from  simple  exercises  illustrating  these  principles, 
gradually  to  attempt  the  more  difficult  task  of  pro- 
ducing effects  like  those  he  appreciates  and  admires 
in  the  works  of  good  writers. 

2.  WRITING  IMPLIES  THINKING 

It  may  be  proper  to  remind  the  -young  writer  here 
that  before  he  begins  to  learn  to  write,  he  ought  to 
*  See  A  College  Magazine, 


4  GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

begin  to  cultivate  his  powers  of  perceiving  and  think- 
ing. Invention  must  always  precede  composition.  It 
is  impossible  to  write  a  composition  without  ideas  to 
start  with.  Unless  one  thinks,  indeed,  it  is  scarcely 
worth  while  trying  to  learn  to  write.  The  mere 
repetition  of  what  has  already  been  expressed  is  not 
composition.  Composition  is  a  building  up  process, 
and  requires  as  its  material  either  new  thought  find- 
ing expression  for  the  first  time,  or  old  thought  finding 
new  and  fresh  expression. 

There  are  two  sources  whence  a  writer  may  derive 
his  ideas;  he  may  derive  them  from  life  or  nature 
through  his  own  observation  and  experience,  or  he 
may  derive  them  from  the  writings  of  others.  The 
one  source  is  just  as  legitimate  as  the  other,  for  re- 
flection upon  the  thought  of  others  may  be  just  as 
truly  invention  as  direct  observation.  The  mind  in- 
vents either  by  direct  contact  with  phenomena,  or 
by  reaction  upon  the  results  of  the  contact  of  other 
minds  with  phenomena.  In  both  cases  there  is  some- 
thing added  to  the  world's  stock  of  ideas,  which  is 
the  really  important  thing  in  writing. 

The  beginner  should  remember,  of  course,  that  if 
he  borrows  his  thought  from  others  he  should  expect 
to  pay  interest;  and  to  do  that,  he  must  put  his 
borrowed  capital  to  productive  use.  That  is  to  say, 
he  must  really  add  something  to  it;  he  must  assimi- 
late it  and  give  it  out  again  in  new  combinations,  or 
modified  by  his  own  thought.  Then,  and  then  only, 
will  his  borrowing  be  legitimate. 

The  writer  must  always  try  to  put  as  much  of  him- 
self into  his  work  as  he  can.    It  is  the  individuality 


WRITING  IMPLIES  THINKING  5 

of  the  writer  that,  in  most  cases,  gives  value  to  a 
piece  of  writing.  In  any  case,  the  chances  are  that 
the  closer  the  writer  adheres  to  his  own  experience 
the  better  will  his  work  be.  With  the  beginner,  of 
course,  the  value  of  his  work  lies  rather  in  the  dis- 
cipline it  gives  him  than  in  the  work  itself ;  but  even 
here  individuality  is  to  be  encouraged.  Nothing  de- 
velops self-confidence  like  the  effort  to  stand  alone, 
and  nothing  more  quickly  gives  the  beginner  that 
sense  of  mastery  over  his  material  which  it  is  the 
aim  of  every  writer  to  possess  than  the  practice  of 
putting  his  own  thought  into  presentable  form. 

The  difficulty  most  beginners  experience  when  they 
try  to  depend  upon  themselves  for  their  material  is 
in  finding  something  to  say.  They  have  nothing  to 
say,  they  protest,  when  urged  to  make  use  of  their 
own  thought  rather  than  that  of  others.  They  are, 
of  course,  mistaken.  They  have  something  to  say  if 
they  only  knew  how  to  get  at  it ;  no  mind  is  an  abso- 
lute blank.  If  they  can  do  nothing  else,  they  can 
at  least  open  their  eyes  and  describe  what  they  see. 
A  little  effort  will  reveal  the  fact  that  there  are  plenty 
of  things  worth  describing  lying  right  before  their 
eyes.  John  Burroughs,  whose  delightful  sketches 
from  nature  every  one  knows,  speaking  of  his  de- 
scriptions, says: 

"I  wish  to  give  an  account  of  a  bird  or  a  flower  or  of 
any  open-air  scene  or  incident.  My  whole  effort  is  to  see 
the  thing  just  as  it  was.  I  ask  myself,  *  Exactly  how  did 
this  thing  strike  my  mind?  What  was  prominent?  What 
was  subordinated?'   ...   I  set  the  thing  down  exactly  as 


6  GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

it  fell  out.  People  say,  '  I  do  not  see  what  you  do  when 
I  take  a  walk/  But  for  the  most  part  they  do,  but  the 
fact  as  it  lies  there  in  nature  is  crude  and  raw;  it  needs 
to  be  brought  out,  to  be  passed  through  the  heart  and 
mind  and  presented  in  appropriate  words."  ^ 

If  the  young  writer  begins  early  the  cultivation 
of  habits  of  observation,  of  noting  carefully  the  things 
he  meets  with  in  the  world  around  him,  he  will  soon 
have  a  fund  of  material  to  draw  upon  of  the  very 
best  possible  kind.  He  may  not  be  able  to  describe 
what  he  sees  as  felicitously  as  does  Mr.  Burroughs, 
but  he  need  never  be  at  a  loss  for  something  to  write 
about. 

As  to  his  reading,  he  should  cultivate  in  that  also 
habits  of  observation.  He  should  read  critically,  or 
as  Emerson  says,  **  creatively. ' '  If  he  is  writing  on 
a  subject  that  he  must  read  up  on,  let  him  fill  his 
mind  with  everything  relating  to  it  that  he  can  lay 
his  hands  on,  or,  at  any  rate,  that  seems  worth  while ; 
then  let  him  turn  it  over  in  his  mind,  assimilate  it, 
and  reflect  upon  it.  After  this,  if  there  is  a  spark 
of  originality  in  him  it  will  make  itself  evident. 

3.  PLANNING  THE   COMPOSITION 

Having  determined  more  or  less  exactly  what  it  is 
he  wishes  to  say,  the  writer  must  next  address  him- 
self to  the  task  of  giving  his  composition  definite  form 
and  structure.  In  other  words,  the  ideas  he  expresses 
must  be  unified  and  made  coherent.    A  composition 

*  Indoor  Studies,  p.  250. 


PLANNING  THE  COMPOSITION  7 

is  not  a  mere  mass  of  material  more  or  less  closely 
bearing  upon  the  subject  in  hand  and  strung  together 
in  a  haphazard  way.  It  must  have  organic  character. 
All  its  parts  must  be  bound  together  and  must  con- 
tribute toward  the  production  of  some  given  eiffect. 
That  is  to  say,  it  must  have  a  central  idea  running 
through  it  and  furnishing,  so  to  speak,  the  thread 
by  which  the  various  parts  are  bound  together, — a 
vital  principle  of  unity  working  in  and  through  every 
part  and  becoming  evident  in  the  whole. 

This  means  that  matter  not  strictly  relevant  to  the 
subject  in  hand  must  be  rigorously  excluded.  Irrel- 
evant matter  is  not  only  useless,  it  is  worse  than 
useless,  for  it  is  almost  sure  to  cause  the  reader  con- 
fusion, and  it  may,  at  times,  even  prevent  him  from 
getting  the  true  point  of  the  discourse. 

Practically,  the  best  way  to  secure  unity  in  the 
composition  is  to  narrow  the  subject  down  as  much 
as  possible.  Most  beginners  make  the  mistake  of 
writing  upon  subjects  of  too  great  breadth.  The 
broader  the  subject,  the  more  numerous  the  points 
of  view  from  which  it  may  be  regarded,  and  hence 
the  greater  the  temptation  for  the  novice  to  scatter 
his  ideas,  to  say  a  little  on  this,  that,  and  the  other 
aspect  of  his  subject,  rather  than  to  concentrate  his 
attention  upon  some  one  definite  line  of  thought. 
Unity  requires  concentration  of  effort  on  the  part  of 
the  writer.  It  forbids  him  to  dissipate  his  thought, 
to  wander  aimlessly  from  point  to  point  and,  as  a 
result,  arrive  nowhere.  It  demands,  rather,  that  he 
fix  upon  some  definite  point  as  the  goal  of  his  effort, 
and  that  he  try  to  attain  that  goal. 


8  GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

Suppose,  for  example,  that  the  writer  wishes  to 
discuss  the  subject  of  football.  There  are  a  thousand 
and  one  different  things  that  may  be  said  about  so 
broad  a  subject  as  this.  No  one,  even  if  he  were 
writing  an  encyclopedic  article  upon  the  subject,  would 
want  to  say  everything  about  it.  What  he  should 
say  on  any  given  occasion  will  depend  upon  his 
point  of  view  and  the  purpose  he  has  in  mind  in 
writing  upon  the  subject.  Is  he  a  football  player 
who  wishes  to  explain  the  game  to  a  friend?  Or  is 
he  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  the  game  who  wishes 
to  defend  it  from  hostile  criticism  in  the  public  press  ? 
The  answers  to  these  questions  will  determine  the 
scope  of  the  composition,  the  material  that  may  be 
used,  and  the  shape  into  which  that  material  may 
be  molded.  In  the  one  case,  however,  the  subject 
will  inevitably  r  arrow  itself  down  to  some  such  form 
as.  How  Football  is  Played ;  in  the  other,  to  some  such 
form  as,  The  Popular  Hostility  to  Football. 

The  basis  of  all  writing  is  personal  experience,  and 
as  each  man's  experience  is  apt  to  be  somewhat  differ- 
ent from  that  of  every  other  man,  so  each  writer's 
manner  of  presenting  a  given  subject  is  likely  to  be, 
in  some  respects,  different  from  that  which  would 
be  adopted  by  any  other  writer.  No  writer  is  a 
law  unto  himself,  however.  The  material  of  every 
discourse  must  be  fitted  together  in  an  orderly  fashion 
of  some  kind  or  other.  It  must  be  made  coherent. 
There  must  be  no  gaps  or  breaks  in  the  composition. 
Each  part  must  be  in  its  proper  place, — the  place, 
that  is,  in  which  it  will  be  most  effective, — and  the 
relation  of  the  various  parts  to  each  other  and  to  the 


PLANNING  THE  COMPOSITION  9 

whole  must  be  made  obvious.  If  this  is  not  so,  if 
there  is  any  want  of  connection  or  break  in  the  train 
of  thought,  the  mind  of  the  reader  will  be  unable  to 
devote  itself  wholly  to  the  consideration  of  the  matter 
in  hand,  and  the  effectiveness  of  the  composition  will 
be  to  that  extent  impaired. 

The  planning  of  a  composition  is  thus  a  matter 
requiring  some  forethought.  Good  coherence  in  the 
composition  cannot  be  secured  without  a  plan.  It  is 
not  necessary  that  this  plan  be  always  committed 
to  paper.  If  the  writer  has  it  clearly  in  mind,  that, 
in  most  cases,  will  suffice,  though  the  sketching  or 
outlining  of  the  plan  before  actual  composition  has 
been  begun  is  always  advisable. 

The  precise  plan  to  be  followed  in  any  given  com- 
position will  depend,  of  course,  upon  the  nature  of 
the  subject  and  the  conditions  under  which  it  is 
treated.  In  general,  however,  the  plan  must  be  in 
keeping  with  the  natural  laws  of  the  association  of 
ideas.  In  narrative  writing,  for  example,  the  natural 
order  to  follow  in  grouping  the  events  of  the  story  is 
the  chronological  order,  the  order  in  which  the  events 
happened  in  time.  In  descriptive  composition,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  writer  may  group  his  details  accord- 
ing either  to  the  principle  of  contiguity,  or  according 
to  the  principles  of  resemblance  and  of  contrast;  in 
fact,  he  may  use  all  these  principles  in  one  and  the 
same  plan. 

As  an  illustration  of  a  plan  which  follows  the 
principle  of  contrast,  take  Burroughs 's  essay  on  Dr. 
Johnson  and  Carlyle.  Somewhat  condensed,  the  es- 
say proceeds  as  follows: 


10  GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

Glancing  at  a  remark  in  the  London  Times,  the  author^ 
of  Obiter  Dicta,  in  his  late  essay  on  Dr.  Johnson,  asks :  "  Is 
it  as  plain  as  the  'old  hill  of  Howth/  that  Carlyle  was  a 
greater  man  than  Johnson?  Is  not  the  precise  contrary  the 
truth?  "  There  are  very  many  people,  I  imagine,  who  would 
be  slow  to  admit  that  the  "  precise  contrary "  were  the 
truth;  yet  it  is  a  question  not  to  be  decided  offhand.  Both 
were  great  men,  unquestionably,  apart  from  their  mere 
literary  and  scholastic  accomplishments.  Each  made  a 
profound  impression  by  virtue  of  his  force  of  character, 
his  weight  and  authority  as  a  person.  ...  As  regards  the 
genius,  Carlyle  ranks  far  above  Johnson. 

Indeed  the  intellectual  equipment  of  the  two  men,  and 
the  value  of  their  contributions  to  literature,  admit  of 
hardly  any  comparison.  But  the  question  still  is  of  the 
man,  not  of  the  writer. 

This^  is  excellently  said,  and  is  true  enough.  ...  If  a 
man  is  born  constitutionally  unhappy,  as  both  these  men 
seem  to  have  been,  his  suffering  will  be  in  proportion  to 
the  strength  and  vividness  of  the  imagination ;  and  Carlyle's 
imagination,  compared  with  Johnson's,  was  like  an  Arctic 
night  with  its  streaming  and  flashing  auroras,  compared 
with  the  midnight  skies  of  Fleet  Street. 

Carlyle  fought  a  Giant  Despair  all  his  life,  and  never 
for  a  moment  gave  an  inch  of  ground.  .  .  .  Johnson  fought 
many  lesser  devils,  such  as  moroseness,  laziness,  irritability 
of  temper,  gloominess,  and  tendency  to  superstition.  .  .  . 
What  takes  one  in  Johnson  is  his  serious  self -reproof  and 
the  perfect  good  faith  in  which  he  accuses  himself.  .  .  . 
Carlyle  does  not  touch  us  in  just  this  way,  because  his 
ills  are  more  imaginary  and  his  language  more  exaggerated. 
"What  takes  one  in  Carlyle  is  the  courage  and  helpfulness 
that  underlie  his  despair,  the  humility  that  underlies  his 
*  Mr.  Augustine  Birrell. 
2  Referring  to  a  quotation  from  Birrell. 


PLANNING  THE  COMPOSITION  11 

arrogance,  the  love  and  sympathy  that  lie  back  of  his  violent 
objurgations  and  in  a  way  prompt  them.  .    .    . 

Again,  Johnson  owed  much  more  to  his  times  than  Carlyle 
did  to  his.   .   .   . 

Johnson  has  survived  his  works.  .  .  .  Our  interest  in  the 
man  seems  likely  to  be  perennial.   .  .   . 

Is  it  possible  to  feel  as  deep  an  interest  in  and  admira- 
tion for  Carlyle,  apart  from  his  works,  as  we  do  in  Johnson? 
Different  temperaments  will  answer  differently.  Some 
people  have  a  natural  antipathy  to  Carlyle,  based,  largely, 
no  doubt,  on  misconception.  But  misconception  is  much 
easier  in  his  case  than  in  Johnson's.  He  was  more  of  an 
exceptional  being.  He  was  pitched  in  too  high  a  key  for  the 
ordinary  uses  of  life.  He  had  fewer  infirmities  than  John- 
son, moral  and  physical.  Johnson  was  a  typical  English- 
man, and  appeals  to  us  by  all  the  virtues  and  faults  of  his 
race.  .  .  .  Both  men  had  the  same  proud  independence,  the 
same  fearless  gift  of  speech,  the  same  deference  to  authority 
or  love  of  obedience.  .  .  .  Yet  the  fact  remains  that  Johnson 
lived  and  moved  and  thought  on  a  lower  plane  than  Carlyle, 
and  that  he  cherished  less  lofty  ideals  of  life  and  of  duty. 
It  is  probably  true  also  that  his  presence  and  his  conversa- 
tion made  less  impression  on  his  contemporaries  than  did 
Carlyle's;  but,  through  the  wonderful  Boswell,  a  livelier, 
more  lovable,  and  more  real  image  of  him  is  likely  to  go 
down  to  succeeding  ages  than  of  the  great  Scotchman 
through  his  biographer. 


Important  things  for  the  writer  to  consider  are  the 
beginning  and  the  ending  of  his  composition.  Ex- 
cept in  books  and  treatises  of  considerable  length, 
formal  and  extended  introductions  are  quite  out  of 
place.  Ordinarily,  the  writer  should  begin  at  once 
with  the  subject  in  hand.    In  very  short  compositions, 


12  GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

he  should  always  do  so.  The  space  at  his  disposal  is 
usually  all  needed  for  the  development  of  his  theme, 
and  should  therefore  be  used  for  that  purpose  and 
for  no  other.  Notice  the  directness  with  which  Lowell, 
for  example,  begins  his  essay  on  Emerson  the  Lec- 
turer. **  It  is  a  singular  fact  that  Mr.  Emerson  is 
the  most  steadily  attractive  lecturer  in  America.  *  *  It 
is  not  always  necessary  to  begin  in  this  direct 
fashion,  but,  in  general,  it  is  a  good  way  to  begin. 
Begin  at  the  real  beginning  and  waste  as  little  time 
on  introductory  matter  as  possible, — this  is  the  safest 
of  all  rules  for  the  young  writer  to  follow. 

With  regard  to  the  ending,  a  somewhat  similar 
rule  may  be  given.  End  when  everything  that  it 
is  really  necessary  to  say  has  been  said.  Never  pro- 
long a  composition  beyond  its  natural  and  proper  close. 
A  good  ending  should  leave  the  reader  satisfied,  neither 
surprised  at  its  suddenness  nor  impatient  that  it  is 
long  drawn  out.  As  a  rule,  the  ending  should  have 
something  of  the  nature  of  a  climax;  that  is,  the 
interest  in  the  composition  should  heighten  steadily 
toward  the  end  and  be  greatest  at,  or  near,  the  con- 
clusion. 

4.  PARAGRAPHING 

All  compositions,  except  the  very  shortest,  have 
subdivisions,  called  paragraphs,  in  which  are  discussed 
the  various  topics  coming  under  the  general  subject. 
When  the  composition  is  reduced  to  its  lowest  terms, — 
that  is,  when  it  consists  of  but  a  single  paragraph, — the 
paragraph  becomes,  of  course,  identical  with  the  whole 
composition;  but  ordinarily  it  is  a  subdivision  of  the 


PARAGRAPHING  13 

whole  composition,  and  its  function  is  the  facilitating 
of  the  discussion  of  the  subject  by  providing  a  means 
of  taking  up,  one  by  one,  the  several  topics  into  which 
the  subject  may  be  divided.  Practically,  therefore, 
the  paragraph  is  the  working  unit  of  discourse;  for, 
although  the  sentence  is  the  ultimate  unit  of  expressed 
thought,  compositions  are  built  up  paragraph  by  para- 
graph, rather  than  sentence  by  sentence. 

Good  paragraphing,  it  should  be  needless  to  say, 
is  an  essential  part  of  good  writing.  There  is  no 
truer  test  of  clear  thinking  on  the  part  of  the  writer 
than  good  paragraphing  in  his  composition.  Para- 
graphs do  not  take  shape  of  their  own  accord.  They 
are  not  the  result  of  spontaneous  effort,  as  sentences 
often  are.  They  are,  on  the  contrary,  the  result  of  con- 
scious prevision  or  planning.  In  writing  a  paragraph, 
one  must  have  clearly  in  mind,  not  only  his  topic  but 
everything  he  wishes  to  say  in  developing  that  topic. 
If  he  would  hope  to  produce  a  given  effect,  he  must 
foresee  the  end  from  the  beginning,  and  he  must 
not  leave  anything  to  chance. 

All  paragraphs  are  not,  of  course,  planned  alike. 
The  great  majority  of  normal  paragraphs,  however, 
conform  more  or  less  closely  to  one  and  the  same 
scheme,  which  may  be  outlined  as  follows:  (1)  the 
statement  of  the  topic;  (2)  the  development  or  dis- 
cussion of  the  topic;  and  (3)  the  conclusion. 

Observe  how  closely  the  following  paragraphs,  for 
example,  conform  to  this  scheme: 

The  great  error  in  Rip^s  composition  was  an  insuperable 
aversion  to  all  kinds  of  profitable  labor.  It  could  not  be 
from  the  want  of  assiduity  or  perseverance;  for  he  would 


14  GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

sit  on  a  wet  rock,  with  a  rod  as  long  and  heavy  as  a  Tartar's 
lance,  and  fish  all  day  without  a  murmur,  even  though  he 
should  not  be  encouraged  by  a  single  nibble.  He  would 
carry  a  fowling-piece  on  his  shoulder  for  hours  together, 
trudging  through  woods  and  swamps,  and  up  hill  and  down 
dale,  to  shoot  a  few  squirrels  or  wild  pigeons.  He  would 
never  refuse  to  assist  a  neighbor,  even  in  the  roughest  toil, 
and  was  a  foremost  man  at  all  country  frolics  for  husking 
Indian  corn,  or  building  stone  fences;  the  women  of  the 
village,  too,  used  to  employ  him  to  run  their  errands,  and 
to  do  such  little  odd  jobs  as  their  less  obliging  husbands 
would  not  do  for  them.  In  a  word.  Rip  was  ready  to  attend 
to  anybody's  business  but  his  own;  but  as  to  doing  family 
duty,  and  keeping  his  farm  in  order,  he  found  it  impossible.^ 

To  go  light  is  to  play  the  game  fairly.  The  man  in  the 
woods  matches  himself  against  the  forces  of  nature.  In  the 
towns  he  is  warmed  and  fed  and  clothed  so  spontaneously 
and  easily  that  after  a  time  he  perforce  begins  to  doubt 
himself,  to  wonder  whether  his  powers  are  not  atrophied 
from  disuse.  And  so,  with  his  naked  soul,  he  fronts  the 
wilderness.  It  is  a  test,  a  measuring  of  strength,  a  proving 
of  his  essential  pluck  and  resourcefulness  and  manhood, 
an  assurance  of  man's  highest  potency,  the  ability  to  endure 
and  to  take  care  of  himself.  In  just  so  far  as  he  substitutes 
the  ready-made  of  civilization  for  the  wit-made  of  the  for- 
est, the  pneumatic  bed  for  the  balsam  boughs,  in  just  so  far 
is  he  relying  on  other  men  and  other  men's  labor  to  take 
care  of  him.  To  exactly  that  extent  is  the  test  invalidated. 
He  has  not  proved  a  courteous  antagonist,  for  he  has  not 
stripped  to  the  contest. ^ 

The  average  paragraph  has  not,  perhaps,  quite  so 
regular  a  construction  as  those  just  cited,  both  of  which 

1  From  living's  Rip  Van  Winkle. 

2  From  Stewart  Edward  White's  TM  Forest. 


PARAGRAPHING  15 

have  an  explicit  statement  of  the  topic  in  the  first 
sentence  and  a  clearly  defined  conclusion.  Still,  it 
tends  in  the  direction  of  the  type  form  outlined  above, 
and  departs  from  that  form  only  because  of  the  neces- 
sity of  avoiding  monotony.  Owing  to  the  need  of 
variety,  we  find  the  set  conclusion  frequently  omitted 
and  the  topic  stated  in  some  other  sentence  than  the 
opening  one,  or  even  left  without  explicit  statement 
at  all.  In  this  last  case  the  paragraph  must  be  so 
constructed  that  the  reader  will  have  no  difficulty  in 
formulating  the  topic  for  himself.  In  the  following 
paragraph,  for  example,  there  is  no  statement  of  the 
topic,  but  the  reader  easily  perceives  what  the  para- 
graph is  about : 

As  the  escort  disappeared,  their  pent-up  feelings  found 
vent  in  a  few  hysterical  tears  from  the  Duchess,  some  bad 
language  from  Mother  Ship  ton,  and  a  Parthian  volley  of 
expletives  from  Uncle  Billy.  The  philosophic  Oakhurst 
alone  remained  silent.  He  listened  calmly  to  Mother 
Shipton's  desire  to  cut  somebody's  heart  out,  to  the  re- 
peated statements  of  the  Duchess  that  she  would  die  in  the 
road,  and  to  the  alarming  oaths  that  seemed  to  be  bumped 
out  of  Uncle  Billy  as  he  rode  forward.  With  the  easy 
good-humor  characteristic  of  his  class,  he  insisted  upon  ex- 
changing his  own  riding-horse,  "  Five  Spot,"  for  the  sorry 
mule  which  the  Duchess  rode.  But  even  this  act  did  not 
draw  the  party  into  any  closer  sympathy.  The  young 
woman  readjusted  her  somewhat  draggled  plumes  with  a 
feeble,  faded  coquetry;  Mother  Shipton  eyed  the  possessor 
of  "  Five  Spot "  with  malevolence,  and  Uncle  Billy  included 
the  whole  party  in  one  sweeping  anathema.^ 

*From  Bret  Harte's  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat, 


16  GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

The  method  of  developing  the  paragraph  topic  will 
depend,  obviously,  upon  the  nature  of  the  topic  and 
the  purpose  of  the  paragraph.  In  narrative  and  de- 
scriptive writing,  the  method  of  development  consists 
ordinarily  in  grouping  together  details  according  to 
the  principle  of  their  time  or  space  relations,  or 
according  to  the  principles  of  resemblance  and  of  con- 
trast. In  the  first  of  the  following  narrative  para- 
graphs, for  example,  we  have  a  fairly  clear  statement 
of  the  topic  at  the  beginning  and  then  a  grouping 
together  of  the  events  illustrating  it  according  as 
they  happened  in  time;  in  the  second,  no  topic  is 
expressed,  but  one  is  implied  in  the  opening  sentences 
and  fully  developed  later  through  the  enumeration 
of  the  various  incidents  arising  out  of  the  situation 
depicted : 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long  grizzled  beard,  his 
rusty  fowling-piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  an  army  of 
women  and  children  at  his  heels,  soon  attracted  the  attention 
of  the  tavern  politicians.  They  crowded  around  him,  eyeing 
him  from  head  to  foot  with  great  curiosity.  The  orator 
bustled  up  to  him,  and  drawing  him  partly  aside,  inquired 
*'on  which  side  he  voted?  "  Rip  stared  in  vacant  stupidity. 
Another  short  but  busy  little  fellow  pulled  him  by  the  arm, 
and,  rising  on  tiptoe,  inquired  in  his  ear,  "  Whether  he 
was  Federal  or  Democrat  ?  "  Rip  was  equally  at  a  loss  to 
comprehend  the  question;  when  a  knowing,  self-important 
old  gentleman,  in  a  sharp  cocked  hat,  gjade  his  way  through 
the  crowd,  putting  them  to  the  right  and  left  with  his  elbows 
as  he  passed,  and  planting  himself  before  Van  Winkle, 
with  one  arm  akimbo,  the  other  resting  on  his  cane,  his  keen 
eyes  and  sharp  hat  penetrating,  as  it  were,  into  his  very 
soul,  demanded  in  an  austere  tone,  "What  brought  him  to 


PARAGRAPHING  17 

the  election  with  a  gun  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  mob  at  his 
heels,  and  whether  he  meant  to  breed  a  riot  in  the  village  ?  " 
"  Alas !  gentlemen,"  cried  Rip,  somewhat  dismayed,  "  I  am 
a  poor  quiet  man,  a  native  of  the  place,  and  a  loyal  subject 
of  the  king,  God  bless  him! "  ^ 

Tom  Simson  not  only  put  all  his  worldly  store  at  the  dis- 
posal of  Mr.  Oakhurst,  but  seemed  to  enjoy  the  prospect 
of  their  enforced  seclusion.  "  We'll  have  a  good  camp  for 
a  week,  and  then  the  snow'll  melt,  and  we'll  all  go  back 
together."  The  cheerful  gaiety  of  the  young  man  and  Mr. 
Oakhurst's  calm  infected  the  others.  The  Innocent,  with 
the  aid  of  pine-boughs,  extemporized  a  thatch  for  the  roof- 
less cabin,  and  the  Duchess  directed  Piney  in  the  rearrange- 
ment of  the  interior  with  a  taste  and  tact  that  opened  the 
blue  eyes  of  that  provincial  maiden  to  their  fullest  extent. 
"I  reckon  now  you're  used  to  fine  things  at  Poker  Flat," 
said  Piney.  The  Duchess  turned  away  sharply  to  conceal 
something  that  reddened  her  cheek  through  its  professional 
tint,  and  Mother  Shipton  requested  Piney  not  to  "  chatter." 
But  when  Mr.  Oakhurst  returned  from  a  weary  search  for 
the  trail,  he  heard  the  sound  of  happy  laughter  echoed  from 
the  rocks.  He  stopped  in  some  alarm,  and  his  thoughts 
first  naturally  reverted  to  the  whisky,  which  he  had  pru- 
dently cached.  "  And  yet  it  don't  somehow  sound  like 
whisky,"  said  the  gambler.  It  was  not  until  he  caught 
sight  of  the  blazing  fire  through  the  still  blinding  storm 
and  the  group  around  it  that  he  settled  to  the  conviction 
that  it  was  "  square  fun."  ^ 

The  typical  method  of  development  in  the  descrip- 
tive paragraph, — that  is,  by  means  of  the  systematic 
grouping  of  the  striking  or  characteristic  details  of 
the  object, — may  be  illustrated  by  the  following: 
*  From  living's  Rip  Van  Winkle. 
2  From  Bret  Harte's  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat, 


18  GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  him.  There  are  no  such 
dogs  now.  He  belonged  to  a  lost  tribe.  As  I  have  said, 
he  was  brindled  and  gray  like  Rubislaw  granite;  his  hair 
short,  hard,  and  close,  like  a  lion's;  his  body  thick-set, 
like  a  little  bull, — a  sort  of  compressed  Hercules  of  a  dog. 
He  must  have  been  ninety  pounds'  weight,  at  the  least;  he 
had  a  large,  blunt  head ;  his  muzzle  black  as  night,  a  tooth 
or  two — being  all  he  had — gleaming  out  of  his  jaws  of 
darkness.  His  head  was  scarred  with  the  records  of  old 
wounds,  a  sort  of  series  of  fields  of  battle  all  over  it;  one 
eye  out,  one  ear  cropped  as  close  as  was  Archbishop  Leigh- 
ton's  father's;  the  remaining  eye  had  the  power  of  two; 
and  above  it,  and  in  constant  communication  with  it,  was  a 
tattered  rag  of  an  ear,  which  was  forever  unfurling  itself 
like  an  old  flag;  and  then  that  bud  of  a  tail,  about  one 
inch  long, — if  it  could  in  any  sense  be  said  to  be  long, 
being  as  broad  as  long, — the  mobility,  the  instantaneousness, 
of  that  bud  were  very  funny  and  surprising,  and  its  ex- 
pressive twinklings  and  winkings,  the  intercommunications 
between  the  eye,  the  ear,  and  it  were  of  the  oddest  and 
swiftest.^ 

Development  in  the  descriptive  paragraph  by  means 
of  contrast  or  comparison  may  be  observed  in  the  fol- 
lowing : 

Rosamund  and  Mary  had  been  talking  faster  than  their 
male  friends.  They  did  not  think  of  sitting  down,  but 
stood  at  the  toilet  table  near  the  window  while  Rosamund 
took  off  her  hat,  adjusted  her  veil,  and  applied  little  touches 
of  her  finger-tips  to  her  hair — hair  of  infantine  fairness, 
neither  flaxen  nor  yellow.  Mary  Garth  seemed  all  the 
plainer  standing  at  an  angle  between  the  two  nymphs — 

1  From  John  Brown's  Rob  and  His  Friends* 


PARAGRAPHING  19 

the  one  in  the  glass,  and  the  one  out  of  it,  who  looked 
at  each  other  with  eyes  of  heavenly  blue,  deep  enough 
to  hold  the  most  exquisite  meanings  an  ingenious  beholder 
could  put  into  them,  and  deep  enough  to  hide  the  meanings 
of  the  owner  if  these  should  happen  to  be  less  exquisite. 
Only  a  few  children  at  Middlemarch  looked  blonde  by  the 
side  of  Rosamund,  and  the  slim  figure  displayed  by  her 
riding  habit  had  delicate  undulations.  In  fact,  most  men 
in  Middlemarch,  except  her  brothers,  held  that  Miss  Vincy 
was  the  best  girl  in  the  world,  and  some  called  her  an 
augel.  Mary  Garth,  on  the  contrary,  had  the  aspect  of 
an  ordinary  sinner!  she  was  brown;  her  curly  dark  hair 
was  rough  and  stubborn ;  her  stature  was  low ;  and  it  would 
not  be  true  to  declare,  in  satisfactory  antithesis,  that  she 
had  all  the  virtues.^ 

Expository  and  argumentative  paragraphs  are,  as 
a  rule,  somewhat  different  in  structure  from  descrip- 
tive and  narrative  paragraphs.  The  topic  is  more 
commonly  expressed  here  than  in  the  descriptive  or 
narrative  paragraph,  and  the  development  may  take 
other  forms.  Besides  the  forms  of  development  al- 
ready mentioned, — ^those  of  enumerating  details  or 
particulars  and  of  comparing  or  contrasting, — ^we  may 
have  the  development  in  expository  and  argumenta- 
tive paragraphs  take,  for  example,  one  or  more  of 
the  following  forms:  (1)  the  defining  or  fixing  the 
limits  of  the  topic;  (2)  the  amplifying  or  enlarging 
upon  the  content  of  the  topic;  (3)  the  citing  of  in- 
stances or  examples  for  the  purpose  of  illustrating, 
or  making  application  of,  a  truth  or  principle  laid 
down  in  the  topic  sentence;   (4)   the  specifying  of 

*  From  George  Eliot's  Middlemarch, 


20  GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

reasons  for,  or  the  causes  or  results  of,  something 
expressed  in  the  topic  sentence.  Other  methods  of 
development  might  be  mentioned,  but  these  are,  per- 
haps, the  most  common.     A  few  examples  will  suffice. 

(1)  Development  by  the  method  of  definition : 

The  kinetic  theory  of  gases  is  now  generally  accepted  by 
men  of  science,  and  all  modern  investigations  of  the  mathe- 
matical relations  of  molecular  forces  and  centers  are  based 
upon  this  theory.  It  asserts  that  a  gas  consists  of  a  collec- 
tion of  molecules,  simple  or  compound,  which  are  in  ex- 
tremely rapid  motion  and  which  intermingle  freely,  coming 
into  collision  with  each  other,  probably,  and  certainly  with 
the  confining  surfaces  of  the  chamber  in  which  they  may 
be  contained,  with  a  violence  which  depends  upon  their 
velocities;  which  velocities,  in  turn,  are  determined  by  the 
temperature  of  the  mass.  In  fact,  the  supposed  motion  of 
these  particles  is  that  mode  of  motion  known  as  heat.  The 
intermolecular  spaces,  and  hence  the  free  paths  of  the  mole- 
cules, are  comparatively  large,  and  each  molecule  moves 
over  distances  of  considerable  length,  as  compared  to  its 
own  diameter,  on  the  average,  without  collision  with  its 
neighbor  molecules;  but  the  continual  motion  of  all  pro- 
duces great  variations  in  the  momentary  distances  of  particle 
from  particle,  and  while  the  mean  density  of  the  mass  at 
any  point  is  preserved,  the  number  of  molecules  within  any 
prescribed  space  is  never  the  same  at  any  two  consecutive 
instants.^ 

(2)  Development  by  the  method  of  amplification: 

Yet  one  more  cause  of  failure  in  our  lives  here  may  be 
briefly  spoken  of — the  want  of  method  or  order.    Men  do 
*  From  R.  H.  Thurston's  Beat  as  a  Form  of  Energy, 


PARAGRAPHING  21 

not  consider  sufficiently,  not  merely  what  is  suited  to  the 
generality,  but  what  is  suited  to  themselves  individually. 
They  have  different  gifts  and  therefore  their  studies  should 
take  a  different  course.  One  man  is  capable  of  continuous 
thought  and  reading,  while  another  has  not  the  full  use  of 
his  faculties  for  more  than  an  hour  or  two  at  a  time.  It 
is  clear  that  persons  so  differently  constituted  should  pro- 
ceed on  a  different  plan.  Again,  one  man  is  gifted  with 
powers  of  memory  and  acquisition,  another  with  thought 
and  reflection;  it  is  equally  clear  that  there  ought  to  be 
a  corresponding  difference  in  the  branches  of  study  to 
which  they  devote  themselves.  Things  are  done  in  half 
the  time  and  with  half  the  toil  when  they  are  done  upon 
a  well-considered  system;  when  there  is  no  waste  and  noth- 
ing has  to  be  unlearned.  As  mechanical  forces  pressed  into 
the  service  of  man  increase  a  hundredfold  more  and  more  his 
bodily  strength,  so  does  the  use  of  method, — of  all  methods 
which  science  has  already  invented  (for  as  actions  are  con- 
stantly passing  into  habits  so  is  science  always  being  con- 
verted into  method) — of  all  the  methods  which  an  indi- 
vidual can  devise  for  himself,  enlarge  and  extend  the  mind. 
And  yet  how  rarely  does  any  one  ever  make  a  plan  of 
study  for  himself — or  a  plan  of  his  own  life.* 

(3)  Development  by  citing  instances  of  the  truth 
of  a  principle: 

Historians  and  philosophers  have  not  infrequently  re- 
marked that  the  stress  of  war  results  in  the  advancement  of 
science  and  learning.  Napoleon's  invasion  of  Egypt  carried 
in  its  train  the  unlocking  of  the  mysteries  of  the  hiero- 
glyphs and  the  production  of  the  great  work  "  Description 
de  I'Egypte."     More  recently  the  foundation  of  the  Uni- 

1  From  Benjamin  Jowett's  College  Sermons. 


22  GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

versity  of  Strassburg  signalized  the  close  of  the  Franco- 
Prussian  War,  while  the  establishment  of  the  Johns  Hop- 
kins University  was  a  direct  resultant  of  the  war  between 
the  States,  and  was  intended,  at  least  in  the  mind  of  the 
founder,  to  assist  in  healing  the  breaches  this  had  created.^ 

(4)  Development  by  giving  reasons  for  accepting 
a  proposition: 

Biology  needs  no  apologist  when  she  demands  a  place— 
and  a  prominent  place — in  any  scheme  of  education  worthy 
of  the  name.  Leave  out  the  physiological  sciences  from 
your  curriculum,  and  you  launch  the  student  into  the  world, 
undisciplined  in  that  science  whose  subject-matter  would 
best  develop  his  powers  of  observation;  ignorant  of  facts 
of  the  deepest  importance  for  his  own  and  others*  welfare; 
blind  to  the  richest  sources  of  beauty  in  God's  creation; 
and  unprovided  with  that  belief  in  a  living  law,  and  an 
order  manifesting  itself  in  and  through  endless  change 
and  variety,  which  might  serve  to  cheek  and  moderate  that 
phase  of  despair  which,  if  he  take  an  earnest  interest  in 
social  problems,  he  will  assuredly  sooner  or  later  pass.^ 

As  the  paragraph  is,  in  a  v^ay,  a  miniature  com- 
position in  itself,  the  laws  of  unity  and  coherence 
must  be  observed  in  its  structure  just  as  carefully  as 
in  that  of  the  larger  whole.  A  paragraph,  therefore, 
should  have  but  one  topic,  and  everything  in  it  should 
relate  to  that  topic  and  to  nothing  else.  The  para- 
graph exists,  in  fact,  as  we  have  seen,  solely  for  the 
purpose  of  dealing  in  an  orderly  fashion  with  the 

^  From  Scribner's  Magazine,  January,  1904. 
*  From  Huxley's  Essays. 


PARAGRAPHING  23 

various  topics  which  spring  out  of  the  general  sub- 
ject ;  and  that  it  may  be  effective,  it  should  deal  with 
only  one  of  them  at  a  time. 

Observe,  in  the  following  paragraph,  for  example, 
how  carefully  the  writer  keeps  to  his  topic : 

The  perfect  historian  is  he  in  whose  work  the  character 
and  spirit  of  an  age  is  exhibited  in  miniature.  He  relates 
no  fact,  he  attributes  no  expression  to  his  characters,  which 
is  not  authenticated  by  sufficient  testimony.  But  by  judi- 
cious selection,  rejection,  and  arrangement,  he  gives  to  the 
truth  those  attractions  which  have  been  usurped  by  fiction. 
In  his  narrative  a  due  subordination  is  observed:  some 
transactions  are  prominent;  others  retire.  But  the  scale  on 
which  he  represents  them  is  increased  or  diminished,  not 
according  to  the  dignity  of  the  persons  concerned  in  them, 
but  according  to  the  degree  in  which  they  elucidate  the 
condition  of  society  and  the  nature  of  man.  He  shows  us 
the  court,  the  camp,  and  the  senate.  But  he  shows  us  also 
the  nation.  He  considers  no  anecdote,  no  peculiarity  of 
manner,  no  familiar  saying,  as  too  insignificant  for  his 
notice  which  is  not  too  insignificant  to  illustrate  the  opera- 
tion of  laws,  of  reUgion,  and  of  education,  and  to  mark 
the  progress  of  the  human  mind.  Men  will  not  merely  be 
described,  but  will  be  made  intimately  known  to  us.  The 
changes  of  manners  will  be  indicated,  not  merely  by  a  few 
general  phrases  or  a  few  extracts  from  statistical  documents, 
but  by  appropriate  images  presented  in  every  line.^ 

No  irrelevant  matter  is  brought  in  here,  no  digres- 
sions are  made,  but  everything  made  to  bear  upon  the 
particular  point  under  discussion.  Hence  the  effect- 
iveness of  the  paragraph. 

*From  Macaulay*s  Essay  on  Eistory, 


24  GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

Not  only  must  the  paragraph  be  properly  unified; 
it  must  also  be  made  coherent.  There  must  be  some 
principle  of  sequence  observed  in  passing  from  point 
to  point  in  the  development.  This  means  that  the 
same  point  of  view  must  be  maintained  throughout 
the  paragraph,  and  that  all  minor  details  be  kept 
strictly  subordinated  to  the  main  details. 

Special  attention  should  be  given  to  the  beginning 
and  the  ending,  for  upon  the  management  of  these 
depends,  in  no  small  measure,  the  effectiveness  of 
the  paragraph  as  a  whole.  What  particular  detail 
should  be  placed  at  the  beginning  and  what  at  the 
end,  will  depend  upon  the  circumstances  of  the  case. 
Other  things  being  equal,  however,  the  end  will  give 
more  emphasis  to  a  point  than  the  beginning.  Effec- 
tive devices  for  making  the  conclusion  emphatic  are 
the  employment  of  a  short,  summarizing  sentence  at 
the  end ;  restatement  of  the  topic,  either  in  the  same  or 
in  other  words;  and  inversion,  or  arranging  the  sen- 
tences of  the  paragraph  in  such  a  way  as  to  bring  the 
topic  sentence  last.  Examples  of  these  devices  are 
given  below : 

(1)  Ending  a  short  summarizing  sentence: 

So  talks  the  sender  with  noise  and  deliberation.  It  is  the 
Morse  code  working — ordinary  dots  and  dashes  which  can 
be  made  into  letters  and  words,  as  everybody  knows.  With 
each  movement  of  the  key  bluish  sparks  jump  an  inch  be- 
tween the  two  brass  knobs  of  the  induction  coil,  the  same 
kind  of  coil  and  the  same  kind  of  sparks  that  are  familiar  in 
experiments  with  the  Roentgen  rays.  For  one  dot,  a  single 
spark  jumps;  for  one  dash  there  comes  a  stream  of  sparks. 
One  knob  of  the  induction  coil  is  connected  with  the  earth, 


PARAGRAPHING  25 

the  other  with  the  wire  hanging  from  the  masthead.  Each 
spark  indicates  a  certain  oscillating  impulse  from  the  elec- 
trical battery  that  actuates  the  coil;  each  one  of  these  im- 
pulses shoots  through  the  aerial  space  by  oscillations  of  the 
ether,  traveling  at  the  speed  of  light,  or  seven  times  around 
the  earth  in  a  second.  That  is  all  there  is  in  the  sending 
of  these  Marconi  messages.^ 

(2)  Ending  a  restatement  of  the  topic: 

Life  is  not  long  enough  for  a  religion  of  inferences;  we 
shall  never  have  done  beginning,  if  we  determine  to  begin 
with  proof.  We  shall  ever  be  laying  our  foundations;  we 
shall  turn  theology  into  evidences,  and  divines  into  textu- 
aries.  We  shall  never  get  at  our  first  principles.  Resolve 
to  believe  nothing,  and  you  must  prove  your  proofs  and 
analyze  your  elements,  sinking  further  and  further,  and 
finding  "in  the  lowest  depth  a  lower  deep,"  till  you  come 
to  the  broad  bosom  of  scepticism.  I  would  rather  be  bound 
to  defend  the  reasonableness  of  assuming  that  Christianity 
is  true,  than  to  demonstrate  a  moral  governance  from  the 
physical  world.  Life  is  for  action.  If  we  insist  on  proofs 
for  everything,  we  shall  never  come  to  action:  to  act  you 
must  assume,  and  that  assumption  is  faith.^ 

(3)  Ending  a  placing  of  the  topic  sentence  last: 

The  tact  of  the  Greeks  in  matters  of  this  kind  ^  was  in- 
fallible.   We  may  rely  upon  it  that  we  shall  not  improve 

1  From  an  article  by  Cleveland  Moffatt  in  McClure's  Magazine. 

2  From  Newman's  Discussions  and  Arguments. 

5  Matthew  Arnold,  from  whose  essay  on  Wordsworth  this  ex- 
ample is  taken,  had  remarked  in  the  preceding  paragraph  that 
Wordsworth's  classification  of  his  poems  is  ingenious  but  far- 
fetched. 


26  GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

upon  the  classification  adopted  by  the  Greeks  for  kinds  of 
poetry;  that  their  categories  of  epic,  dramatic,  lyric,  and 
so  forth,  have  a  natural  propriety,  and  should  be  adhered 
to.  It  may  sometimes  seem  doubtful  to  which  of  two  cate- 
gories a  poem  belongs;  whether  this  or  that  poem  is  to  be 
called,  for  instance,  narrative  or  lyric,  lyric  or  elegiac.  But 
there  is  to  be  found  in  every  good  poem  a  strain,  a  predom- 
inant note,  which  determines  the  poem  as  belonging  to  one 
of  these  kinds  rather  than  the  other;  and  here  is  the  best 
proof  of  the  value  of  the  classification,  and  of  the  advan- 
tage of  adhering  to  it.  Wordsworth's  poems  will  never 
produce  their  due  effect  until  they  are  freed  from  their 
present  artificial  arrangement,  and  grouped  more  naturally. 

As  to  the  length  to  which  a  paragraph  may  be 
permitted  to  run,  no  strict  rule  can  be  laid  down. 
In  general  it  is  wise  to  avoid  very  long  paragraphs. 
Whenever  a  paragraph  extends  over  several  pages, 
it  will  usually  be  found  either  lacking  somewhat  in 
unity,  or  developed  beyond  the  limits  marked  b^ 
the  importance  of  its  topic  with  regard  to  the  subject 
of  the  composition.  In  any  case,  if  it  is  too  long 
to  be  at  once  mentally  reviewed  and  grasped  as  a 
whole,  it  is  too  long  to  be  effective.  The  modem 
theory  of  paragraphing  really  hinges  upon  the  fact 
that  a  paragraph  should  be  an  organic  part  of  the 
discourse  small  enough  for  the  mind  to  take  it  in  as  a 
whole  at  one  moment  of  time.  On  the  other  hand, 
frequent  very  short  paragraphs  should  likewise  be 
avoided,  since  they  tend  to  give  a  **  scrappy  ''  effect 
to  a  discourse.  Here,  as  in  all  things,  the  golden 
mean  is  the  rule  to  follow. 

WTien  all  has  been  said  about  the  structure  of  the 


PARAGRAPHING  27 

paragraph,  considered  as  a  unit  by  itself,  the  fact 
must  not  be  overlooked  that  the  paragraph  is  in  reality 
but  a  part  of  a  larger  whole,  and  that  therefore  it 
must  be  so  shaped  that  it  will  fit  properly  into  its 
appointed  place.  Each  paragraph  of  the  composi- 
tion must  be  properly  linked  with  the  adjoining  para- 
graphs, so  that  the  reader  may  be  able  to  pass  easily 
from  one  topic  to  another.  In  other  words,  the  tran- 
sitions between  paragraphs  must  be  made  smooth  and 
natural. 

One  way  of  securing  good  transitions — and  perhaps 
the  best  way — is  to  shape  every  paragraph  so  that 
the  end  of  it  will  seem  to  suggest  that  which  is  to 
follow.  When  this  is  impossible  or  undesirable,  tran- 
sition from  one  paragraph  to  another  may  be  made 
by  means  of  some  word  or  phrase  of  backward  refer- 
ence placed  at  or  near  the  beginning  of  the  second 
paragraph. 

Good  illustrations  of  smooth  and  natural  transitions 
may  be  seen,  for  example,  in  the  following : 

Sometimes,  in  addressing  men  who  sincerely  desire  the 
betterment  of  our  public  affairs,  but  who  have  not  taken 
active  part  in  directing  them,  I  feel  tempted  to  tell  them 
that  there  are  two  gospels  which  should  be  preached  to 
every  reformer.  The  first  is  the  gospel  of  morality;  the 
second  is  the  gospel  of  efficiency. 

To  decent,  upright  citizens  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  preach 
the  doctrine  of  moraUty  as  applied  to  the  affairs  of  public 
life.  .  .  .  The  first  requisite  in  the  citizen  who  wishes  to 
share  the  work  of  our  public  life  ...  is  that  he  shall  act 
disinterestedly  and  with  a  sincere  purpose  to  serve  the 
whol6  commonwealth. 


28  GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

But  disinterestedness  and  honesty  and  unselfish  desire  to 
do  what  is  right  are  not  enough  in  themselves.  A  man 
must  not  only  be  disinterested,  but  he  must  be  efficient.  .  .  . 
He  must  stand  firmly  for  what  he  believes,  and  yet  he  must 
realize  that  political  action,  to  be  effective,  must  be  the 
joint  action  of  many  men,  and  that  he  must  sacrifice  some- 
what of  his  own  opinions  to  those  of  his  associates  if  he 
ever  hopes  to  see  his  desires  take  practical  shape. 

The  prime  thing  that  every  man  who  takes  an  interest  in 
politics  should  remember  is  that  he  must  act,  and  not 
merely  criticise  the  actions  of  others.  .  .  .  We  need  fearless 
criticism  of  our  public  men  and  public  parties;  .  .  .  but  it 
behooves  every  man  to  remember  .  .  .  that,  in  the  end,  prog- 
ress is  accomplished  by  the  man  who  does  the  things,  and 
not  by  the  man  who  talks  about  how  they  ought  or  ought 
not  to  be  done. 

Therefore  the  man  who  wishes  to  do  good  in  his  com- 
munity must  go  into  active  political  life.  .  .  .  He  may  find 
that  he  can  do  best  by  acting  within  a  party  organiza- 
tion; he  may  find  that  he  can  do  best  by  acting  ...  in  an 
independent  body  of  some  kind;  but  with  some  association 
he  must  act  if  he  wishes  to  exert  any  real  influence.^ 


5.    THE  STRUCTURE  OF  THE  SENTENCE 

The  sentence,  like  the  paragraph,  is  but  a  part  of 
a  larger  whole,  and  the  writer  in  fashioning  it  must 
always  keep  this  fact  in  mind.  Every  sentence  has 
a  certain  function  to  perform  in  the  paragraph,  and 
its  structure  must  be  such  as  will  enable  it  to  perform 
that  function  properly. 

1  From  Theodore  Roosevelt's  The  Manly  Virtues  and  Practi- 
cal Politics. 


THE  STRUCTURE  OF  THE  SENTENCE    29 

Considered  as  a  unit  by  itself,  the  sentence,  like 
any  other  unit  of  expressed  thought,  must  have,  of 
course,  definiteness  of  form  and  coherence.  It  must 
have,  that  is  to  say,  at  least  one  independent  verb, 
and  it  must  have  its  component  parts  so  arranged  that 
the  relation  of  each  to  other  is  apparent  at  a  glance, 
and  it  must,  further,  be  contained  within  rather  nar- 
row limits  as  regards  space.  The  sentence  that  has 
no  verb  that  can  stand  alone  is  not,  properly  speak- 
ing, a  sentence  at  all.  On  the  other  hand,  an  in- 
definitely prolonged  series  of  more  or  less  loosely 
articulated  clauses,  is  just  as  objectionable ;  a  sentence 
that  goes  everywhere  and  takes  in  everything  usually 
fails  to  accomplish  anything. 

The  first  rule  of  the  sentence — that  it  must  be 
the  expression  of  one  complete  thought,  and  only 
one — is  easily  enough  observed,  of  course,  in  the 
simple  sentence,  which  has  only  one  subject  and  one 
predicate;  and  even  in  the  complex  sentence,  where 
there  is  only  one  main  assertion,  formal  unity  at  least 
may  always  be  secured,  though  logical  unity  will  be 
lacking  if  to  the  main  assertion  are  joined  subordinate 
assertions  not  really  related  to  it.  In  the  compound 
sentence,  however,  the  question  of  unity  often  arises. 
Are  the  assertions  which  one  wishes  to  join  together 
in  a  single  sentence  intimately  enough  related  to  form 
parts  of  a  larger  whole,  or  do  they  lack  that  intimate 
relationship?  This  is  a  question  which  nearly  every 
writer  has  to  ask  himself  occasionally,  and  for  the 
beginner  it  is  sometimes  a  troublesome  one.  Very 
often  it  is  a  mere  matter  of  punctuation.  Should 
one  use  a  comma  or  semicolon,  or  a  period  between 


30  GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

such  and  such  clauses?  It  is  impossible  to  lay  down 
any  rule  that  will  cover  all  cases;  but  in  general  it 
may  be  said  that  the  law  of  unity  for  the  compound 
sentence  demands  not  only  that  there  be  a  close  con- 
nection between  the  parts,  but  that  the  meaning  ex- 
pressed by  the  whole  be  different  from  that  which 
would  have  been  expressed  by  the  parts,  if  each  were 
taken  separately.  Such  a  sentence  as  the  following, 
for  example,  violates  every  principle  of  unity : 

Some  parts  of  the  lake  are  very  deep,  as  is  the  case  with 
most  of  the  Wisconsin  lakes,  and  deep  down  in  these  holes 
amongst  the  reeds  the  muskallonge  makes  his  home,  and  I 
know  no  better  sport  than  to  get  out  early  in  the  morning 
with  a  deep  troll  baited  with  salt  pork  and  wait  for  the 
big  fellows  to  strike. 

It  is  impossible  to  unify  such  utterly  disconnected 
assertions  as  **  some  parts  of  a  certain  lake  in  Wis- 
consin are  very  deep,'^  and  **  trolling  for  muskallonge 
in  the  early  morning  is  excellent  sport.  *'  But  whether 
a  given  series  of  assertions  which  are  intimately  con- 
nected should  be  grouped  together  in  one  sentence  or 
kept  apart  in  separate  sentences,  will  depend  upon 
the  precise  shade  of  meaning  which  the  writer  wishes 
to  convey,  or  upon  the  structure  of  the  paragraph  of 
which  they  are  to  form  a  part. 

The  point  may  be  illustrated  by  the  following  pas- 
sages from  Macaulay : 

(a)  Pitt,  who  did  not  love  Legge,  saw  this  event  with 
indifference.  But  the  danger  was  now  fast  approaching 
himself.     Charles  the  Third  of  Spain  had  early  conceived 


THE  STRUCTURE  OF  THE  SENTENCE    31 

a  deadly  hatred  of  England.  Twenty  years  before,  when 
he  was  King  of  the  Two  Sicilies,  he  had  been  eager  to  join 
the  coalition  against  Maria  Theresa.  But  an  English  fleet 
had  suddenly  appeared  in  the  Bay  of  Naples.  An  English 
Captain  had  landed,  had  proceeded  to  the  palace,  had  laid 
a  watch  on  the  table,  and  had  told  his  majesty  that,  within 
an  hour,  a  treaty  of  neutrality  must  be  signed,  or  a  bom- 
bardment would  commence.  The  treaty  was  signed;  the 
squadron  sailed  out  of  the  bay  twenty-four  hours  after  it 
had  sailed  in;  and  from  that  day  the  ruling  passion  of  the 
humbled  Prince  was  aversion  to  the  English  name.  He  was 
at  length  in  a  situation  to  gratify  that  passion.  He  had  re- 
cently become  King  of  Spain  and  the  Indies. 

(b)  Five  years  after  the  death  of  Prince  Frederic,  the 
public  mind  was  for  a  time  violently  excited.  But  this  ex- 
citement had  nothing  to  do  with  the  old  disputes  between 
Whigs  and  Tories.  England  was  at  war  with  France.  The 
war  had  been  feebly  conducted.  Minorca  had  been  torn 
from  us.  Our  fleet  had  retired  before  the  white  flag  of  the 
House  of  Bourbon.  A  bitter  sense  of  humiliation,  new  to 
the  proudest  and  bravest  of  nations,  superseded  every  other 
feeling.  The  cry  of  all  the  counties  and  great  towns  of 
the  realm  was  for  a  government  which  would  retrieve  the 
honor  of  the  English  arms. 

In  the  first  passage,  the  coordinate  clauses  of  the 
sentence  italicized  might  very  well,  so  far  as  they 
themselves  are  concerned,  have  been  made  separate 
sentences.  The  various  assertions  have  not,  as  is 
the  case  with  those  of  the  preceding  sentence,  that 
intimate  relation  with  each  other  which  makes  it 
impossible  to  disjoin  them:  they  are  not  separate 
assertions  with  regard  to  one  act,  but  assertions  deal- 
ing with  separate  and  distinct  acts.     Consequently, 


32  GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

each  might  have  been  made  an  independent  sentence. 
From  the  point  of  view  of  their  relation  to  the  topic 
of  the  paragraph,  however,  they  ought  obviously  to 
be  taken  together ;  hence  the  writer  has  made  a  single 
sentence  of  them.  In  the  second  passage,  however,  a 
similar  series  of  assertions — the  series  italicized — has 
been  treated  differently.  The  assertions  in  this  series 
might  properly  enough  have  been  grouped  in  one 
sentence.  The  first  sentence  states  a  general  truth, 
the  two  following  give  illustrative  particulars,  and  the 
fourth  presents  the  consequence.  All  are  closely  re- 
lated. But  the  writer's  purpose  in  the  paragraph  is 
to  bring  out  as  strongly  as  he  can  the  fact  that  the 
public  mind  of  England  was  for  a  time  violently  ex- 
cited in  consequence  of  the  conduct  of  the  war;  and 
to  do  this,  he  emphasizes  as  much  as  possible  the 
causes  of  the  excitement  by  mentioning  each  in  a 
separate  sentence.  The  result  is  analogous  to  the 
cumulative  effect  of  a  series  of  blows  delivered  in 
rapid  succession. 

As  to  the  number  of  related  assertions  that  may  be 
grouped  together  in  a  single  sentence,  nothing  definite 
can  be  said.  Neither  can  anything  definite  be  said 
as  to  what  should  be  the  length  of  the  average  sen- 
tence. It  depends  a  little  on  the  writer's  individu- 
ality, though  more,  perhaps,  on  the  nature  of  the  sub- 
ject. A  rough  calculation  based  on  passages  of  about 
one  thousand  words  each,  selected  at  random  from 
Macaulay  's  Essay  on  Milton,  Newman 's  Idea  of  a  Uni- 
versity, and  Matthew  Arnold's  Culture  and  Anarchy, 
shows  an  average  sentence  length  of  about  twenty-six, 
thirty,  and  thirty-nine  words,  respectively.    The  sub- 


THE  STRUCTURE  OF  THE  SENTENCE    33 

jects  treated  here  are  similar  in  their  nature,  and  the 
difference  in  sentence  length  is  due  mainly  to  the  dif- 
ference in  the  individuality  of  the  writers,  Macaulay 
being  evidently  much  fonder  of  the  short  sentence  than 
Matthew  Arnold.  Again,  making  a  similar  calcula- 
tion from  passages  of  the  same  length  from  two  of 
Stevenson's  works, — Virginibus  Puerisque,  on  the  one 
hand,  and  Treasure  Island,  on  the  other, — the  results 
show  an  average  sentence  length  of  thirty-four  and 
thirty  words,  respectively.  Here  the  difference  is  due 
solely  to  the  nature  of  the  subject. 

As  we  should  suppose,  the  long  sentence  is  much 
more  often  used  in  discourses  of  a  serious  nature 
than  in  those  of  lighter  character.  The  natural  tend- 
ency of  the  long  sentence  is  to  give  weight  and 
strength  to  the  style;  that  of  the  short  sentence — 
provided  it  does  not  go  to  an  extreme — is  to  give 
lightness,  ease,  and  flexibility.  Notice,  for  example, 
the  difference  in  style  between  the  two  following  pas- 
sages,— the  one  from  Darwin 's  Origin  of  Species,  with 
its  average  of  fifty-nine  words  to  the  sentence,  the 
other  from  Stevenson 's  Treasure  Island,  with  its  aver- 
age of  only  twenty-two  words  to  the  sentence : 

On  the  ordinary  view  of  each  species  having  been  inde- 
pendently created,  why  should  specific  characters,  or  those 
by  which  the  species  of  the  same  genus  differ  from  each 
other,  be  more  variable  than  generic  characters  in  which  they 
all  agree?  Why,  for  instance,  should  the  color  of  a  flower 
be  more  likely  to  vary  in  any  one  species  of  a  genus,  if 
the  other  species  possess  differently  colored  flowers,  than 
if  all  possessed  the  same  colored  flowers?  If  species  are 
only  well-marked  varieties,  of  which  the  characters  have 


34  GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

become  in  a  high  degree  permanent,  we  can  understand  this 
fact  J  for  they  have  abeady  varied  since  they  branched  off 
from  a  common  progenitor  in  certain  characters,  by  which 
they  have  come  to  be  specifically  different  from  each  other; 
therefore  these  same  characters  would  be  more  likely  again 
to  vary  than  the  generic  characters  which  have  been  inher- 
ited without  change  for  an  immense  period.  It  is  inexpli- 
cable on  the  theory  of  creation  why  a  part  developed  in 
a  very  unusual  manner  in  one  species  alone  of  a  genus, 
and  therefore,  as  we  may  naturally  infer,  of  great  impor- 
tance to  that  species,  should  be  eminently  liable  to  variation ; 
but,  on  our  view,  this  part  has  undergone,  since  the  several 
species  branched  off  from  a  common  progenitor,  an  unusual 
amount  of  variability  and  modification,  and  therefore  we 
might  expect  the  part  generally  to  be  still  variable.  But 
a  part  may  be  developed  in  the  most  unusual  manner,  like 
the  wing  of  a  bat,  and  yet  not  be  more  variable  than  any 
other  structure,  if  the  part  be  common  to  many  subordinate 
forms,  that  is,  if  it  has  been  inherited  for  a  very  long 
period;  for  in  this  case  it  will  have  been  rendered  constant 
by  long-continued  natural  selection.^ 

At  last  I  came  right  down  upon  the  borders  of  the  clear- 
ing. The  western  end  was  already  steeped  in  moonshine; 
the  rest,  and  the  blockhouse  itself,  still  lay  in  a  black 
shadow,  checkered  with  long,  silvery  streaks  of  light.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  house  an  immense  fire  had  burned  itself 
into  clear  embers,  and  shed  a  steady,  red  reverberation,  con- 
trasted strongly  with  the  mellow  paleness  of  the  moon. 
There  was  not  a  soul  stirring,  nor  a  sound  beside  the  noises 
of  the  breeze. 

I  stopped,  with  much  wonder  in  my  heart,  and  perhaps 
a  little  terror  also.    It  had  not  been  our  way  to  build  great 

*  From  Darwin's  Origin  of  Species. 


THE  STRUCTURE  OF  THE  SENTENCE    35 

fires;  we  were,  indeed,  by  the  captain's  orders,  somewhat 
niggardly  of  firewood;  and  I  began  to  fear  that  something 
had  gone  wrong  while  I  was  absent. 

I  stole  round  by  the  eastern  end,  keeping  close  in  shadow, 
and  at  a  convenient  place,  where  the  darkness  was  thickest, 
crossed  the  palisade. 

To  make  assurance  surer,  I  got  upon  my  hands  and 
knees,  and  crawled,  without  a  sound,  toward  the  corner  of 
the  house.  As  I  drew  nearer,  my  heart  was  suddenly  and 
greatly  lightened.  It  was  not  a  pleasant  noise  in  itself,  and 
I  have  often  complained  of  it  at  other  times;  but  just  then 
it  was  like  music  to  hear  my  friends  snoring  together  so 
loud  and  peaceful  in  their  sleep.  The  sea-cry  of  the  watch, 
that  beautiful  "  All's  well,"  never  fell  more  reassuringly  on 
my  ear/ 

As  a  rule,  the  beginner  will  do  well  to  avoid  the  very 
long  sentence.  Apart  from  the  fact  that  it  is  apt 
to  be  somewhat  lacking  in  unity,  it  is  more  difficult 
to  handle  than  the  short  sentence  or  sentence  of 
medium  length.  In  the  average  short  sentence  or 
sentence  of  medium  length,  the  problem  of  securing 
good  coherence  is  not  usually  one  that  troubles  the 
writer  very  much.  If  the  rules  of  grammar  are  duly 
observed,  that  fact  settles,  in  the  majority  of  cases 
perhaps,  what  part  shall  be  joined  to  what  other  part, 
and  where  each  part  shall  be  placed.  In  the  longer 
and  more  involved  sentence,  however,  some  care  is 
usually  necessary,  if  good  coherence  is  to  be  secured. 
The  beginner  must  not  suppose,  of  course,  that  he 
can  dispense  with  all  forethought  in  any  case.  Even 
in  the  simplest  sentence,  not  only  must  the  parts  be 

1  From  Stevenson's  Treasure  Island. 


36  GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

so  arranged  as  to  bring  the  meaning  out  clearly,  but 
so,  also,  as  to  enable  the  sentence  to  fit  properly  into 
its  particular  niche  in  the  paragraph. 

The  general  rule  for  coherence  in  the  sentence  is 
that  those  parts  which  are  most  closely  related  in 
thought  should  be  most  closely  related  in  position. 
This  presupposes  that  the  various  sentence  elements 
all  have  their  proper  shape,  and  that  the  question 
is  simply  one  of  obtaining  the  right  order  or  arrange- 
ment of  the  parts.  In  the  following  examples,  there 
is  incoherence  resulting  from  placing  some  part  of 
the  sentence  in  a  wrong  position,  but  it  can  easily  be 
remedied  by  a  rearrangement : 

He  was  only  good  when  he  was  happy.  (Should  read, 
good  only.) 

I  lived  under  the  dread  of  being  discharged  for  five 
months.     (Should  read,  I  lived  five  months  under,  etc.) 

Haman  is  accused  of  threatening  the  Jews  by  Esther  in 
the  presence  of  the  king,  and  is  ordered  to  be  hanged. 
(Should  read,  Haman  is  accused  hy  Esther  in  the  presence, 
etc.) 

Almost  every  year  the  question  as  to  whether  the  colleges 
should  dispense  with  professional  football  coaches  comes 
up.  (Should  read,  Almost  every  year  the  question  com,es 
up  as  to,  etc.) 

The  widely  prevalent  idea  that  a  farmer  can  hardly  be- 
come wealthy  who  devotes  his  time  entirely  to  the  pursuit  of 
agriculture,  is  an  erroneous  one.  (Should  read,  The  .  .  . 
idea  that  a  farmer  who  devotes  his  time  .  .  .  to  .  .  .  agri- 
culture can  hardly  become  wealthy,  is  an  erroneous  one.) 

He  was  probably  a  boy  about  sixteen  years  of  age. 
(Should  read,  He  was  a  hoy  probably  about  sixteen  years  of 
age.) 


THE  STRUCTURE  OF  THE  SENTENCE    37 

Incoherence  often  results,  however,  from  some  fault 
in  the  construction  of  the  sentence,  and  in  this  case 
it  can  be  remedied  only  by  remodeling  the  sentence. 
Typical  causes  of  such  incoherence  are : 

(1)  The  employment  of  a  loose  or  dangling  modi- 
fier: 

While  making  excavations  there  not  long  ago,  between 
fifteen  and  twenty  marble  images  were  uncovered.  (Should 
read,  While  they  were  making,  etc.,  or,  While  making  ex- 
cavations .  .  .  they  uncovered,  etc.) 

Accustomed  to  regular  living,  our  Bohemian  mode  of 
living  disturbed  him  greatly.  (Should  read,  As  he  was  ac- 
customed, etc.,  or  Accustomed  .  .  .,  he  was  greatly  dis- 
turbed by  our  Bohemian,  etc.) 

Being  a  freshman,  it  was  expected  that  I  should  join 
the  other  members  of  the  class  in  retaliating  on  the  sopho- 
mores. (Should  read.  Being  a  freshman,  I  was  expected  to 
join,  etc.) 

After  reading  the  book  through,  one^s  first  impression  is 
confirmed.     (Should  read.  After  one  has  read,  etc.) 

He  has  to  work  ten  hours  a  day,  thus  having  no  time 
for  recreation.  (Should  read.  He  has  to  work  .  .  .,  and 
thus  has,  etc.) 

(2)  Faulty  coordination  or  subordination  of 
clauses : 

The  first  to  answer  our  advertisement  was  a  strong- 
looking  Swedish  girl  who  could  not  speak  a  word  of  Eng- 
lish, and  we  knew  we  could  not  get  along  with  her.  ( Should 
read,  The  first  .  .  .  was  o  .  .  .  Swedish  girl,  hut  as  she 
could  not  speak  a  word  of  English,  we  knew,  etc.) 

He  has  sent  me  a  civil  enough  letter,  but  implying  that 
he  is  prepared  to  go  the  length  of  taking  legal  action  iq 


38  GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

the  matter.  (Should  read,  He  has  sent  me  a  civil  enough 
letter,  hut  hints,  etc.,  or,  The  letter  he  has  sent  me  is  civil 
enough,  hut  it  implies,  etc.) 

At  his  friend's  house,  he  met  a  number  of  people  gathered 
together,  apparently,  for  the  purpose  of  having  a  good 
time,  and  who  welcomed  him  with  open  arms.  (Should  read, 
At  his  friend's  house,  he  met  a  number  of  people  who  had 
come  together,  etc.) 

(3)  The  failure  to  make  sentence  elements  that  are 
similar  in  meaning  or  function,  similar  also  in  form: 

She  shows  us  the  gentle  nature  which  he  possessed,  but 
that  he  could  be  driven  into  terrible  passions.  (Should 
read,  She  shows  us  that  he  possessed  a  gentle  nature,  but 
that,  etc.) 

I  intended  to  devote  my  energies,  first  to  straightening  out 
the  tangle  in  my  finances,  and  then  to  the  building  up  of 
a  good  business.  (Should  read,  I  intended  to  devote  my 
energies,  first  to  the  straightening  out  of,  etc.,  or,  I  in- 
tended to  devote  my  energies,  first  to  straightening  out  .  .  ., 
and  then  to  building  up,  etc.) 

By  this  foundation  is  meant  not  only  the  knowledge 
gained,  but  it  also  includes  the  training  in  methods  of  study 
which  one  acquires  through  taking  regular  work.  (The 
words  "  it "  and  "  includes  "  should  be  omitted,  since  they 
change  the  construction  of  "training,"  which  should  have 
the  same  construction  as  "knowledge.") 

(4)  Faulty  comparisons: 

He  was  the  man  of  all  others  in  the  world  I  had  most 
longed  to  see.  (Should  read,  He  of  all  men  was  the  man, 
etc.,  or.  Of  all  men  in  the  world,  he  was  the  man,  etc.) 


THE  STRUCTURE  OF  THE  SENTENCE    39 

His  work  is  as  good,  if  not  better  than,  the  average. 
(Should  read,  His  work  is  as  good  as  the  average,  if  not 
better.) 

No  course  of  action  could  be  better  suited  to  our  purposes, 
or  so  well  calculated  to  strengthen  our  position,  than  that. 
(Should  read.  No  course  of  action  could  be  better  suited  to 
our  purposes,  or  better  calculated,  etc.) 

(5)  Improper  abbreviations  or  omissions: 

We  had  such  fun  as  only  the  light-hearted  can.  (Supply 
"  have  "  after  "  can.") 

When  he  hears  that  you  are  going,  he  will  too.  (Supply 
"go"  after  "will.") 

They  had  neither  respect  nor  confidence  in  his  opinion. 
(Supply  "for"  after  "respect.") 

Incoherence  in  the  sentence  not  infrequently  re- 
sults, also,  from  the  failure  to  punctuate  the  sentence 
properly.  As  a  general  rule,  the  parts  of  a  sentence 
should  be  so  constructed  and  so  placed  that  the  proper 
understanding  of  their  relation  to  each  other  will 
not  be  dependent  vrhoUy  on  the  presence  or  absence 
of  punctuation  marks,  but  it  is  not  always  possible  to 
manage  this  easily.  Besides,  punctuation  marks  are 
always  a  legitimate,  and  sometimes  a  necessary,  means 
of  indicating  the  relationship  between  sentence  ele- 
ments. It  behooves  a  writer,  therefore,  to  look  care- 
fully to  his  punctuation.  In  the  following  sentence, 
for  instance,  the  absence  of  a  punctuation  mark  after 
**  do  "  may  mislead  the  reader,  at  least  for  the  mo- 
ment, as  to  the  relation  subsisting  between  the  clause 
introduced  by  *  *  for  ' '  and  that  which  precedes  it ; 


40  GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

That  is  not  an  easy  thing  to  do  for  those  who  conform 
to  the  law  soon  find  themselves  confronted  by  rapidly  dimin- 
ishing profits. 

The  beginner  has  already  been  reminded  that  the 
sentence,  like  the  paragraph,  is  but  a  part  of  a  larger 
whole,  and  that  therefore  its  form  will,  to  a  certain 
extent,  be  determined  by  its  position  or  function  in 
that  whole.  Hence  the  writer  must  aim  to  construct 
sentences  not  only  good  in  themselves,  but  capable 
of  fitting  into  their  proper  places  in  the  paragraph. 
A  given  sentence  is  almost  always  bound  up  with  a 
number  of  other  sentences  which  add,  in  a  way, 
something  to  its  meaning,  and  which  often,  indeed, 
prescribe  its  very  form. 

To  illustrate,  take  the  following  short  passage : 

One  by  one  the  hunters  came  dropping  in ;  yet  such  is  the 
activity  of  the  Rocky  Mountain  sheep  that  although  sixty 
or  seventy  men  were  out  in  pursuit,  not  more  than  half  a 
dozen  animals  were  killed.  Of  these  only  one  was  a  full- 
grown  male.  He  had  a  pair  of  horns,  the  dimensions  of 
which  were  almost  beyond  belief.^ 

The  second  sentence  here  obviously  cannot  be  fully 
understood  without  the  first;  nor  can  the  meaning 
of  the  third  be  grasped  in  its  completeness  without  a 
reference  to  those  which  go  before.  In  fact,  in  struc- 
ture as  well  as  in  meaning,  the  second  sentence  looks 
both  ways.  The  opening  words  ''  Of  these  "  refer 
directly  to  the  last  clause  of  the  preceding  sentence, 
and  the  last  words  *  *  a  full-grown  male  ' '  form  a  point 
of  departure,  so  to  speak,  for  the  succeeding  sentence. 

*  From  Parkman's   Oregon  Trail. 


THE  STRUCTURE  OF  THE  SENTENCE    41 

This  interdependence  of  the  sentences  of  a  compo- 
sition complicates  the  matter  of  sentence  building  a 
great  deal,  for  the  writer  is  constantly  confronted 
with  a  changing  set  of  conditions  as  the  factors  which 
go  to  determine  the  structure  of  his  sentence.  He 
must  not  only  seek  to  express  a  given  thought  prop- 
erly; he  must  seek,  also,  to  express  that  thought  har- 
moniously with  other  thoughts.  This  means  that  he 
must  attend  carefully  to  such  matters  as  the  proper 
articulation  or  joining  together  of  his  sentences,  the 
placing  of  the  emphasis  on  just  the  right  thing,  and 
the  avoidance  of  anything  like  monotonous  same- 
ness. 

Variety  in  the  structure  of  the  sentence  is  an  espe- 
cially important  thing,  but  in  most  cases  this  will 
be  satisfactorily  attained  if  the  writer  attends  care- 
fully to  the  articulation  of  his  sentences,  and  to  the 
proper  placing  of  the  emphasis.  As  the  thing  to  be 
emphasized  will  vary,  the  emphasis  will  have  to  be 
placed  now  on  this,  and  now  on  that  sentence  element, 
and  this  will  make  it  necessary  to  vary  the  plan  of 
the  sentence  from  time  to  time. 

In  the  normally  constructed  sentence,  the  order  of 
the  constituent  parts  is,  subject,  verb,  object,  and  verb- 
modifier;  and  when  this  order  is  followed,  no  special 
emphasis  is  given  to  any  one  part.  The  verb- 
modifier,  to  be  sure,  from  the  fact  that  it  occupies  the 
most  prominent  position  in  the  sentence, — that  is  to 
say,  the  end, — has  slightly  more  emphasis  than  any 
other  part;  but  it  has  no  special  emphasis.  Special 
emphasis  can  be  given  to  any  particular  part  only 
by  placing  that  part  in  a  position  it  would  not  nor- 


42  GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

mally  occupy.  Thus  a  verb-modifier  placed  at  the 
end  of  the  sentence  is  only  slightly  emphasized ;  placed 
at  the  beginning,  it  is  made  strongly  emphatic.  Sim- 
ilarly, a  subject  placed  at  the  beginning  receives  little 
or  no  emphasis ;  placed  at  the  end,  it  becomes  strongly 
emphasized.  Hence  the  general  rule  to  secure  em- 
phasis in  the  sentence  is,  Change  the  natural  order 
of  the  parts  and  bring  the  part  to  be  emphasized  to 
one  or  other  of  the  naturally  prominent  positions  in 
the  sentence,  namely,  the  beginning  or  the  end. 

In  the  following  sentences,  for  example,  note  how 
the  plan  of  the  sentence  varies  according  as  the  em- 
phasis is  placed  on  this  or  that  sentence  element : 

We  found  inefficiency  and  corruption  everywhere.  (Nor- 
mal arrangement;  verb-modifier  slightly  emphasized.) 

Everywhere  we  found  inefficiency  and  corruption.  (In- 
verted order;  object  slightly,  verb-modifier  strongly  empha- 
sized.) 

Inefficiency  and  corruption  we  found  everywhere.  (In- 
verted order;  verb-modifier  slightly,  object  strongly  empha- 
sized.) 

Great  is  Diana  of  the  Ephesians.  (Inverted  order;  predi- 
cate adjective  emphasized.) 

Flashed  all  their  sabers  bare.  (Inverted  order;  verb 
strongly  emphasized.) 

On  whatever  side  we  contemplate  Homer,  what  principally 
strikes  us  is  his  wonderful  invention.  (Inverted  order; 
subject  emphasized.) 

A  too  frequent  use  of  the  inverted  order  must,  of 
course,  be  avoided,  since  that  would  give  an  air  of 
unuaturalness  to  one's  style.     The  great  majority  of 


THE  CHOICE  OF  WORDS  43 

one's  sentences  ought  obviously  to  be  normal  in  their 
structure.  This  is  why  the  very  frequent  use  of  the 
periodic  sentence  is  objectionable.  In  the  periodic  sen- 
tence, an  essential  part  is  withheld  until  the  end, — 
that  is,  the  sentence  does  not  become  grammatically 
complete  until  the  last  word  is  given ;  but  as  this  last 
or  **  key  "  word,  as  it  is  sometimes  called,  is  usually 
a  word  that  does  not  ordinarily  come  at  the  end,  the 
effect  of  the  sentence  arrangement  is  generally  one 
of  inversion,  and  if  this  effect  is  repeated  too  often, 
the  style  will  seem  to  the  reader  stiff  and  unnatural. 
When  sparingly  and  judiciously  used,  however,  the 
periodic  sentence  tends  to  give  to  one 's  style  an  air  of 
firmness,  vigor,  and  finish. 

6.   THE  CHOICE  OF  WORDS 

**  The  first  merit  which  attracts  in  the  pages  of  a 
good  writer,  or  the  talk  of  a  brilliant  conversational- 
ist," says  Stevenson,  *'  is  the  apt  choice  and  contrast 
of  the  words  employed. ' '  ^  There  is  no  doubt  of  the 
truth  of  this.  Not  only  the  first  merit,  but  the  great- 
est merit  which  a  good  piece  of  writing  possesses  is 
a  pleasing  style.  In  the  last  analysis,  it  is  style  rather 
than  structure  which  gives  discourse  its  effectiveness. 

Precisely  wherein  lies  the  secret  of  style,  it  is  not 
easy  to  say ;  style  is  of  so  subtle  and  elusive  a  nature 
that  it  defies  exact  analysis.  To  a  certain  extent, 
obviously,  it  is  dependent  upon  the  structure  of  the 
sentences  and  paragraphs  of  the  discourse,  but  to  a 

*  See  his  Style  in  Literature. 


44  GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

much  greater  extent  it  is  a  matter,  as  Stevenson 
puts  it,  of  the  "  apt  choice  and  contrast  of  the  words 
employed. '^  We  judge  a  writer's  style,  not  so  much 
by  the  way  he  models  his  sentences  and  paragraphs, 
as  by  his  choice  of  words  and  his  phrasing, — that  is  to 
say,  by  his  ability  to  find  the  right  word  to  express 
his  ideas  and  by  his  ability  at  the  same  time  to  put 
those  words  into  effective  combinations. 

The  ability  to  find  the  right  word  for  the  occasion, 
presupposes,  of  course,  the  possession  of  a  good  vocab- 
ulary. The  writer  must  have  at  his  command  a  stock 
of  words  adequate  to  the  needs  of  the  thought  he 
wishes  to  express,  else  he  will  often  be  at  a  loss  to 
find  just  the  right  word  to  express  his  idea.  If  his 
command  over  words  is  not  what  it  should  be,  he 
should  set  about  improving  it  at  once.  The  best  way 
for  him  to  do  this,  perhaps,  is  to  read  as  widely  as 
possible,  and  especially  with  an  eye  to  the  exact 
meaning  of  the  words  he  reads. 

In  his  search  for  the  right  word  to  express  his  idea, 
the  writer  ought  to  take  three  things  into  considera- 
tion: (1)  the  need  of  being  understood,  (2)  the  need 
of  being  true  to  his  own  thought,  and  (3)  the  need 
of  being  effective.  In  short,  the  things  one  should 
strive  for,  in  choosing  one's  words,  are  clearness, 
accuracy,  and  force. 

Clearness,  naturally,  is  the  first  thing  to  be  con- 
sidered. The  function  of  language  being  to  com- 
municate thought,  it  follows  that  that  quality  in  a 
writer's  discourse  which  enables  his  thought  to  be 
understood  is  the  most  desirable.  The  aim  of  every 
writer,  therefore,  should  be  to  express  himself  in  such 


THE  CHOICE  OF  WORDS  45 

a  way  as  to  enable  his  readers  to  grasp  his  thought 
without  difficulty.  No  one  who  writes  otherwise  can 
be  said  to  possess  a  good  style.  A  good  style  is  always 
lucid;  and,  other  things  being  equal,  the  more  lucid 
the  style  the  better  it  is.  Every  obstacle  that  hinders 
the  thought  of  the  writer  from  becoming  at  once 
apparent  to  the  reader  is  a  defect  of  style,  and  should, 
if  possible,  be  removed.  The  reader 's  attention  should 
be  left  perfectly  free  to  be  concentrated  upon  the 
thought,  and  should  not  be  diverted  from  the  thought 
to  the  medium  through  which  that  thought  is  con- 
veyed. 

Choosing  words  for  clearness,  now,  means  choosing 
words  which  have  a  well-understood  and  generally 
accepted  meaning;  and  this,  in  turn,  means  choosing 
words  which  have  the  sanction  of  good  usage.  For 
practical  purposes,  we  may  regard  these  words  as 
those  used  by  the  best  writers  of  the  present  day. 
The  young  writer  who  would  avoid  mistakes  in  the 
matter  of  his  choice  of  words  would  do  well,  therefore, 
to  make  as  wide  an  acquaintance  with  the  standard 
authors  of  the  present  day  as  possible.  If  he  follows 
their  example,  he  is  not  likely  to  use  words  which 
will  be  misunderstood  or  objected  to  by  his  readers. 

There  is  one  thing,  perhaps,  which  the  young  writer 
needs  to  be  specially  cautioned  against,  and  that  is  the 
indiscriminate  use  of  slang.  Slang  terms  are  often 
among  the  most  familiar  terms  in  the  language;  but 
they  are  never  recognized  as  being  really  a  part  of 
the  language.  There  is  always  a  suggestion  of  vul- 
garity or  bad  taste  about  them.  As  a  rule,  they  are 
rather  vague  in  meaning  and  very  short-lived.    Hence, 


46  GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

apart  from  the  question  of  taste,  they  are  ill-adapted 
for  use  in  serious  writings,  and  should  be  avoided.  To 
be  sure,  a  distinction  has  to  be  made  between  kinds  of 
slang.  Some  are  wholly  bad;  others  are  almost  toler- 
able. For  the  "  vulgar  terms  used  by  vulgar  men  to 
describe  vulgar  things  ' '  nothing  can  be  said ;  but  for 
many  apt  or  picturesque  expressions  which  are  de- 
rived from  reputable  sports  or  occupations,  but  which 
are  still  labeled  * '  slang  ' '  the  case  is  a  little  different. 
A  spoken  language  is  a  living  thing.  It  is  continu- 
ally growing  and  enriching  itself  with  words  from 
various  sources,  and  one  of  these  sources,  unques- 
tionably, is  slang.  Many  expressions  in  the  English 
language  which  are  now  recognized  by  good  usage 
as  legitimate  were  once  mere  slang  terms.  "  Bias,'' 
*  *  hazard, "  '  *  hit  the  mark, "  "  within  an  ace  of, ' '  for 
instance,  are  examples  of  such  expressions.  The  lan- 
guage has  adopted  these  terms  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  they  were  once  slang,  but  it  has  adopted  them 
because  they  were  needed.  It  will  adopt  others  just 
as  readily,  provided  they  also  are  needed.  This,  how- 
ever, is  an  important  proviso;  and  the  young  writer 
who  is  proposing  to  use  a  favorite  bit  of  slang  would 
do  well  to  pause  and  consider  whether  or  not,  in 
that  particular  case,  the  proviso  has  been  met. 

As  to  the  use  of  newly  coined  words,  the  caution 
already  given  with  respect  to  the  use  of  slang 
may  be  repeated :  it  is  permissible  only  when  the  lan- 
guage has  need  of  the  new  words.  "With  a  thinking, 
progressive  people,  new  things  and  new  ideas  are 
constantly  coming  into  vogue,  and  so  long  as  this  is 
true,  so  long  will  there  be  a  need  for  new  words. 


THE  CHOICE  OF  WORDS  47 

To  object  to  these  new  words  would  be  to  deny- 
to  the  language  the  means  offmaking  a  natural  growth. 
At  the  same  time,  before  a  writer  introduces,  or  uses, 
a  new  word,  he  should  be  quite  sure  that  the  need  for 
it  really  exists.  Language  is,  on  the  whole,  rather 
impatient  of  useless  terms.  It  prefers  to  adapt, 
wherever  possible,  old  words  to  new  uses,  rather  than 
to  invent  new  terms  for  everything;  and  whenever 
it  finds  itself  encumbered  with  more  words  to  express 
a  given  idea  than  are  necessary,  it  usually  shows  a 
tendency  to  get  rid  of  some  of  them.  As  every  writer 
owes  something  to  his  language,  it  is  his  duty,  there- 
fore, to  avoid  trying  to  foist  useless  baggage  upon  it. 
Before  venturing  upon  the  coinage  of  new  words,  he 
should  exhaust  the  possibilities  of  those  already  at 
his  command. 

With  regard  to  accuracy,  it  would  seem  to  be  the 
duty  of  the  writer,  if  he  really  wishes  to  say  some- 
thing, to  try  to  find  the  word  which  will,  so  far  as 
he  can  see,  precisely  express  the  thought  he  has  in  his 
mind.  This  word,  provided  it  is  one  which  will  be 
understood  by  his  readers,  is  the  word  he  should  use. 
If  there  is  any  conflict  between  the  demands  of  accu- 
racy and  intelligibility,  he  should  always  prefer,  of 
course,  intelligibility  to  accuracy.  A  word  which  is 
understood,  even  though  it  be  not  just  the  right  word, 
may  come  near  conveying  the  idea  the  writer  in- 
tended ;  but  a  word  which  is  not  understood,  no  matter 
how  exactly  used  or  how  accurately  it  may  fit  the 
thought  in  the  writer's  mind,  is  not  likely  to  convey 
any  idea  at  all. 

How  to  find  the  right  word  is  often  a  difficult 


48  GENERAL  PRINCIPLES 

matter;  no  unfailing  rule  for  finding  it  can  be  given. 
It  may  be  safely  said  that  wide  reading  and  at  least 
some  experience  in  writing  will  alone  give  one  that 
thorough  knowledge  of  words  necessary  to  the 
making  of  the  right  choice  on  a  given  occasion. 
He  who  would  learn  to  write,  then,  should,  as  has 
already  been  suggested,  first  do  a  good  deal  of  careful 
reading  in  standard  authors — the  more  the  better. 
Reading,  however,  can  be  supplemented  by  the  judi- 
cious use  of  a  dictionary  or  a  book  of  synonyms ;  and 
it  is  a  good  plan  for  the  young  writer  to  keep  one  or 
the  other  at  his  elbow  while  writing,  and  to  get  into 
the  habit  of  consulting  it  frequently. 

Suppose,  for  example,  the  writer  is  at  a  loss  for 
some  good,  specific  word  to  express  the  idea  of 
**  searching  for,"  *^  finding  out  " — ^the  adroit  and 
persistent  questioning,  let  us  say,  of  a  reluctant  wit- 
ness to  get  at  the  truth.  General  terms  to  express  the 
idea  are  **  find  out,"  ''  search  for,"  '*  discover," 
**  get  at."  One  of  these  will  probably  be  the  first  to 
occur  to  the  writer ;  but  suppose  no  one  of  them  is  sat- 
isfactory. Thereupon  the  dictionary  or  book  of  syn- 
onyms is  brought  into  requisition.  On  turning  up  in 
the  index  of  Roget's  Treasury  of  English  Words,  for 
instance,  any  one  of  the  terms  mentioned,  the  in- 
quirer will  be  referred  to  the  section  on  "  Results  of 
Reasoning, ' '  where  he  will  find  all  sorts  of  expressions 
for  the  general  idea.  Running  over  these,  he  will 
come  at  length  to  **  ferret  out,"  which,  let  us  suppose, 
strikes  him  as  the  term  he  wants  to  use.  To  reassure 
himself,  he  may  look  it  up  in  the  dictionary.  There 
he  will  find  that  it  means,  literally,  *  *  to  drive  out  of  a 


THE  CHOICE  OF  WORDS  49 

lurking-place,  as  a  ferret  does  a  rabbit/'^  and  that 
figuratively  it  means  *'  to  search  out  by  perseverance 
and  cunning.  *  *  He  has  now  a  term  which  exactly  fits 
the  thought  in  his  mind,  and  he  will  consequently  be 
able  to  make  what  he  says  much  more  effective  than  if 
he  had  been  content  with  the  first  general  word  that 
occurred  to  him. 

With  regard  to  the  necessity  for  being  forceful,  the 
writer  must  remember  that  he  cannot  always  assume 
an  eagerness  on  the  part  of  his  readers  to  learn  what 
he  has  to  say.  If  he  could  assume  so  much,  accuracy 
and  clearness  in  the  choice  of  his  words  would  be  all 
that  he  need  concern  himself  about.  But  few  are  so 
much  on  the  alert  for  what  may  be  of  interest  to 
them  that  they  will  seek  it  out  wherever  it  may  be 
found.  Most  men  need  to  have  their  attention  at- 
tracted or  compelled.  To  make  the  communication 
of  his  thought  effective,  therefore,  the  writer  must 
endeavor  to  give  to  his  style  some  degree  of  forceful- 
ness.  His  words,  that  is,  must  not  only  be  intelli- 
gible and  accurately  used;  they  must  be  forceful  as 
well;  they  must  be  words  which,  when  used  under 
given  conditions,  attract  or  compel  our  attention,  make 
us  feel  that  they  are  the  fit  words  to  use  under  those 
conditions.  The  forceful  word  is  the  apt  word,  the 
word  that  not  only  fits  the  place  in  which  it  is  put, 
but  makes  us  recognize  that  fact. 

*  See  the  Century  Dictionary. 


PART  II 

WEITING  WHICH  AIMS  TO  ENLIGHTEN 
OR  TO  CONVINCE 


In  the  preceding  pages  we  have  devoted  our  at- 
tention exclusively  to  the  consideration  of  some  of  the 
more  general  and  fundamental  principles  of  compo- 
sition, but  have  not  taken  into  account  the  fact  that 
compositions  differ  in  kind.  The  beginner,  however, 
will  already  have  observed  that  not  all  compositions 
should  be  treated  alike,  that  certain  subjects  demand 
one  general  method  of  treatment,  and  certain  others, 
a  quite  different  one. 

In  general,  we  may  say  that  the  object  of  all  writing 
is  to  appeal  either  to  the  understanding  or  to  the 
feelings.  In  a  great  many  cases,  it  is  true,  both  the 
understanding  and  the  feelings  are  affected;  but  for 
the  most  part  we  recognize  one  or  the  other  as  the 
predominant  object  of  appeal.  A  Huxley,  in  ex- 
pounding the  principles  of  biology,  may,  by  the  pre- 
cision and  lucidity  of  his  style,  give  his  readers  pleas- 
ure as  well  as  information;  but  his  chief  aim  will 
obviously  be  to  enlighten  rather  than  to  please.  A 
Dickens,  a^ain,  in  picturing  for  us  a  bit  of  an  imagi- 

51 


52      WRITING  WHICH  AIMS  TO  ENLIGHTEN 

nary  world,  may  at  times  give  us  facts  that  he  would 
have  us  remember;  still,  on  the  whole,  he  will  feel 
that  his  main  end  is  accomplished  if  he  has  been  able 
to  make  us  take  pleasure  in  his  picture.  Setting  aside 
poetry  as  beyond  the  scope  of  our  present  interest, 
we  may  therefore  divide  all  prose  compositions  into 
two  great  classes:  those  which  appeal  mainly  to  the 
understanding,  and  those  which  appeal  mainly  to  the 
feelings. 

As  the  great  bulk  of  writings — and  those,  too,  of 
the  simplest  and  most  ordinary  kind — are  comprised 
in  the  first  class,  we  shall  do  well,  perhaps,  to  begin 
our  consideration  of  the  particular  kinds  of  com- 
positions with  them. 

Before  going  further,  we  have  to  note  that  writings 
which  appeal  to  the  understanding  may  make  this 
appeal  in  two  ways.  They  may  seek  either  to  en- 
lighten the  understanding, — ^that  is,  convey  informa- 
tion about  certain  facts,  truths,  or  principles, — or 
they  may  try  to  influence  people 's  beliefs  with  regard 
to  these  facts,  truths,  or  principles.  In  the  first  case, 
we  call  the  writing  Exposition;  in  the  second,  Argu- 
mentation. These  two  varieties  of  the  literature  of 
thought  are  not  always,  of  course,  sharply  defined, 
since  it  is  sometimes  difficult  to  distinguish  between 
what  is  meant  simply  as  explanation,  and  what  is 
meant  as  an  effort  to  influence  belief  or  opinion.  The 
two  varieties  shade  into  one  another,  as,  in  fact,  all 
kinds  of  writing  do;  but  in  the  majority  of  cases  we 
shall  have  little  or  no  trouble  in  distinguishing  be- 
tween them. 


II 

EXPOSITION 

1.  NATURE  AND  PURPOSE  OF  EXPOSITORY  WRITING 

Exposition,  as  we  have  seen,  is  that  kind  of  writing 
wherein  we  aim  to  explain  something.  Whenever  we 
attempt  to  make  clear  what  a  thing  is,  rather  than 
what  it  appears  to  be,  to  give  its  general  or  essential 
characteristics,  rather  than  its  superficial  appearance, 
or  whenever  we  try  to  set  forth  the  meaning  or  signifi- 
cance of  a  fact,  a  truth,  or  a  principle,  we  are  making 
use  of  exposition.  Expounding,  in  fact,  is  nothing 
more  nor  less  than  explaining. 

Pure  exposition  is  dispassionate.  Its  aim  is  not  to 
stir  the  reader's  feelings  or  influence  his  beliefs,  but 
solely  to  make  him  understand  something.  It  pursues 
the  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth. 

The  purpose  of  exposition  being  elucidation,  its 
first  virtue  must  necessarily  be  clearness;  its  second, 
accuracy.  That  composition  which  pretends  to  ex- 
plain something,  but  which  does  not  succeed  in  making 
its  explanation  intelligible  to  the  reader,  is,  obviously, 
little  better  than  no  explanation  at  all.  As  far  as  the 
reader  is  concerned,  it  might  just  as  well  not  have 
been  written.  For  a  similar  reason,  an  explanation 
that  is  felt  to  be  inaccurate  loses  much,  if  not  all,  of 
its  value.     Minute,  scientific  precision  is  not,  of  course, 

S3 


54  EXPOSITION 

either  possible  or  desirable  in  all  cases ;  circumstances 
will  have  to  determine  whether  a  given  exposition  shall 
be  full  and  exhaustive,  or  brief  and  suggestive  merely. 
But  nothing  will  excuse  inaccuracy.  An  exposition 
should  be  exact  as  far  as  it  goes;  and  other  things 
being  equal,  the  more  precise  it  is  the  better. 

The  importance  of  clearness  as  a  general  principle 
in  writing,  and  its  relation  to  the  question  of  diction 
have  already  been  pointed  out.  It  will  suffice  here, 
therefore,  if  we  call  the  beginner's  attention  to  the 
bearing  good  arrangement  has  upon  the  securing  of 
clearness  in  exposition.  Nowhere,  perhaps,  is  the 
orderly  arrangement  of  the  material  so  important  as 
in  exposition.  It  is  scarcely  too  much  to  say,  in 
fact,  that  half  the  difficulties  in  expository  composi- 
tion spring  out  of  the  question  of  getting  the  topics 
arranged  in  their  proper  order.  Once  the  writer  has 
clearly  in  mind  the  topics  he  wishes  to  discuss,  and 
has  settled  upon  the  order  in  which  he  wishes  to 
develop  them,  he  has  usually  accomplished  more  than 
half  his  task. 

2.   THE  OUTLINE  AS  AN  AID  IN  EXPOSITION 

The  importance  of  a  clear  and  logical  arrangement 
of  the  material  in  exposition  being  conceded,  it  re- 
mains to  consider  the  best  way  to  secure  this.  Nothing 
better  than  the  preparation  of  an  outline  in  advance 
can  be  recommended.  The  use  of  some  sort  of  an 
outline  is  advisable,  to  be  sure,  in  the  case  of  almost 
any  kind  of  writing;  but  it  is  especially  helpful  in 
exposition. 

The  outline  may  be  as  full  or  as  brief  as  the  writer 


THE  OUTLINE  AS  AN  AID  IN  EXPOSITION  55 

chooses.  A  good  plan  is  to  make,  first,  a  very  brief 
or  skeleton  outline,  giving  only  the  main  topics  or 
headings,  and  later  to  enlarge  this  by  filling  in  with 
sub-topics  wherever  necessary.  This  gives  the  writer 
a  chance  to  correct  any  mistakes  of  arrangement  which 
he  may  have  made  in  the  first  or  skeleton  outline. 

Thus,  if  one  were  writing  on  The  Carp  and  its 
Culture,  for  example,  one  might  make  some  such 
preliminary  outline  as  the  following: 

THE  CARP  AND  ITS  CULTURE 

I.  General  characteristics. 
II.  Its  history  and  varieties. 

III.  Its  habits. 

IV.  Its  adaptability  to  artificial  culture. 
V.  Localities  suitable  for  its  culture. 

VI.  The  method  of  culture. 
VII.  The  extent  of  carp  culture. 

This,  if  it  be  regarded  as  adequate  in  its  provision 
of  main  topics,  might  be  enlarged  somewhat  as  follows : 

THE  CARP  AND  ITS  CULTURE 

I.  General  characteristics  of  the  carp. 
II.  Its  history  and  varieties. 

A.  The  scale  carp. 

B.  The  mirror  carp. 

C.  The  leather  carp. 
IIL  Its  habits. 

A.  Its  partiality  for  stagnant  waters. 

B.  Its  readiness  to  take  either  vegetable  or  animal 

food. 

C.  Its  mode  of  reproduction. 


56  EXPOSITION 

IV.  Its  adaptability  to  artificial  culture. 

A.  The  ease  with  which  it  may  be  grown. 

B.  Its  value  as  a  food. 

V.  Localities  suitable  for  its  culture. 

A.  The  kind  of  soil  which  should  underlie  the 

ponds. 

B.  The  character  of  the  water  supply. 
VI.  The  method  of  culture. 

A.  The  size  and  construction  of  the  ponds. 

1.  In  "mixed/'  or  single-pond  culture. 

2.  In  "  class,"  or  triple-pond  culture. 

a.  The  hatching  pond. 

b.  The  breeding  pond. 

c.  The  culture,  or  regular  pond. 

B.  Stocking  the  ponds  and  the  care  of  the  fish. 

1.  In  "  class  "  culture. 

2.  In  "  mixed  "  culture. 

C.  Marketing  the  grown  fish. 

VII.  The  extent  and  importance  of  the  carp  industry. 

A.  In  Europe. 

B.  In  the  United  States. 


In  this  outline  it  will  be  observed  that  the  various 
headings  and  sub-headings  are  phrases  only.  This  is 
what  is  known  as  the  topical  outline.  It  is  sometimes 
desirable,  however, — especially  where  the  outline  is  to 
be  read  by  others  besides  the  writer, — to  have  the  main 
headings  complete  sentences,  and  the  sub-headings 
either  complete  sentences  or  phrases  complementary 
to  the  headings  under  which  they  are  placed.  This 
gives  greater  definiteness  to  an  outline,  and  indicates 
more  precisely  the  writer's  point  of  view. 


THE  OUTLINE  AS  AN  AID  IN  EXPOSITION   57 

The  following,  slightly  adapted  from  a  student's 
theme,  will  illustrate  the  method ; 


THE  DISSEMINATION  OF  THE  SEEDS  OF  WILD 
PLANTS 

I.  Introduction:   A  natural  means   of  disseminating  the 
seeds  of  wild  plants  is  necessary  to  prevent  many 
species  becoming  extinct. 
II.  The  chief  natural  agencies  which  disseminate  the  seeds 
of  wild  plants  are : 

A.  The  wind,  which  distributes 

1.  Light  seeds  having  plumes  or  wing-like  at- 

tachments, such  as  those  of 

a.  The  Canada  thistle. 

b.  The  maple. 

2.  Seeds  of  plants  which,  after  they  mature 

and  die,  may  be  rolled  along  over  level 
plains,  such  as 

a.  Tickle-grass. 

b.  Tumble-weed. 

B.  The  waters  of  rivers,  lakes,  etc.,  which  carry  the 

seeds  of  such  plants  as 

1.  The  water-lily. 

2.  The  willow. 

C.  Animals,  which  transport  seeds 

1.  By  devouring  the  fruits  of  such  plants  as 

a.  The  blackberry. 

b.  The  cherry. 

2.  By  carrying  in  their  fur  or  hair  the  barbed 

seed  pods  of  such  plants  as 

a.  The  burdock. 

b.  The  cockle-bur. 


58  EXPOSITION 

D.  The  explosive  action  of  certain  seed  pods,  which 
by  violently  ejecting  the  seeds  scatters  them 
widely;  for  example, 

1.  The  violet. 

2.  The  witch-hazel. 


3.   EXPOSITION  WHICH  AIMS  TO  DEFINE  OR  TO  CLASSIFY 

The  typical  moods  of  exposition  are  definition  and 
classification.  That  is  to  say,  in  exposition  we  are,  for 
the  most  part,  either  trying  to  make  clear  what  some- 
thing is,  or,  on  the  other  hand,  trying  to  group  things 
in  classes  in  accordance  with  their  natural  relation- 
ships. In  trying  to  make  clear  what  a  thing  is,  we 
are,  of  course,  trying  to  indicate  what  its  essential 
characteristics,  attributes,  or  qualities  are.  Exposi- 
tion by  definition  may  therefore  be  defined  as  the 
setting  forth  of  the  essential  characteristics  of  some- 
thing ;  it  is  the  determining  of  the  meaning  or  content 
of  a  general  idea. 

The  nucleus  of  an  expository  composition  of  the 
defining  kind  is  what  is  known  as  the  logical  definition. 
This  differs  from  the  ordinary  or  loose  definition 
simply  in  being  more  formal  and  exact.  Its  aim  is 
to  mark  out  the  limits  or  boundaries  of  the  term  to 
be  defined,  to  differentiate  it  from  all  other  terms  of 
similar  meaning,  so  that  the  things  for  which  it  stands 
may  be  distinguished  from  all  other  things  which 
can  be  put  in  the  same  general  class.  Thus  if  we  wish 
to  give  a  logical  definition  of  the  term  "  parallelo- 
gram, ' '  we  must  so  frame  our  definition  that  the  differ- 
ence between  a  parallelogram  and  all  other  plane  ^g- 


EXPOSITION  WHICH  AIMS  TO  DEFINE       59 


ures  is  exactly  indicated.  This  involves  the  regarding 
of  the  term  to  be  defined  as  representing  a  species,  the 
bringing  of  that  species  within  a  higher  class  or  genus, 
and  the  enumerating  of  the  essential  qualities  or 
attributes  which  distinguish  the  species  from  the 
genus.  These  distinguishing  qualities  or  attributes 
are  usually  called  the  differentia.  The  following  ex- 
amples will  illustrate  the  form  in  which  the  logical 
definition  usually  occurs: 


Term  to  be  Defined 
(Species) 

Science  is 

Man  is 


Genus  Differentia 

knowledge       systematized. 

an  animal       capable  of  reasoning. 


A  paragraph      is     *  ^  "^^*  ^^   i  ^^^veloping    a    single 
(    discourse     (    idea. 


A  genus 


Rhetoric 


IS 


discourse 
a  class 


is        the  art 


(  divisible  into  smaller 
(    classes  or  species. 

which  deals  with  the 
effective  communica- 
tion of  thought  and 
emotion  by  means  of 
words. 


In  testing  the  validity  of  a  definition,  we  have  to 
take  into  account  both  the  content  and  the  form. 
"With  regard  to  the  content,  the  main  question  is 
whether  the  differentia  be  satisfactory  or  not.  In  a 
valid  definition,  the  differentia  must  always  be  (1)  an 
essential  characteristic  of  the  species  or  thing  for 
which  the  term  to  be  defined  stands,  and  (2)  a  char^ 
acteristic  not  possessed  by  any  other  member  of  the 


80  EXPOSITION 

genus.  Thus  if  we  were  to  define 
animal  capable  of  flying,"  the  definition  would  be 
faulty,  since,  in  the  first  place,  not  all  birds  are 
capable  of  flying,  and,  in  the  second  place,  other 
animals  than  birds — bats,  for  instance — possess  this 
characteristic.  That  is  to  say,  the  differentia  would 
not  be  an  essential  attribute  of  birds;  nor  would  it 
be  an  attribute  possessed  by  no  other  animals  than 
birds.  The  definition  would  thus  be,  at  one  point,  too 
narrow  and  at  another,  too  broad ;  it  would  not  cover 
all  the  territory  indicated  by  the  term  to  be  defined, 
yet  it  would  stretch  beyond  that  territory.  In  other 
words,  it  would  admit  of  exceptions,  and  a  logical 
definition  must  be  true  universally,  else  it  is  worthless. 
It  should  be  noted  that  accuracy  of  definition  does 
not  necessarily  imply  that  the  differentia  must  exhaust 
all  the  characteristics  which  distinguish  the  species 
from  the  genus.  In  exact  scientific  definitions,  accu- 
racy of  this  kind  may  be  desirable,  but  it  is  not  neces- 
sary in  those  of  a  more  literary  kind.  For  example, 
in  the  definition  of  man  as  *  *  a  reasoning  animal, ' '  the 
differentia,  '*  reasoning,'*  does  not  cover  all  the  qual- 
ities distinguishing  man  from  other  animals;  but  the 
definition  is  a  perfectly  valid  one  for  all  that.  It  is 
accurate  as  far  as  it  goes.  It  is  thus  often  possible, 
especially  in  popular  exposition,  where  absolute  exact- 
ness is  seldom  an  essential  point,  for  a  writer  to  have 
a  good  deal  of  freedom  with  regard  to  the  choice  of 
differentia  for  his  definition.  *'  Man  is  a  reasoning 
animal  "  might  be  a  perfectly  good  definition  for  one 
purpose ;  but  for  another,  * '  man  is  a  worshipping 
animal  "  might  be  better.    Neither  of  these  defini- 


EXPOSITION  WHICH  AIMS  TO  DEFINE       61 

tions,  however,  would  be  of  much  service  to  the  zoolo- 
gist, who  would  want  to  have  all  the  essential  charac- 
teristics distinguishing  man  from  the  other  animals  of 
his  class  and  order  carefully  indicated. 

With  regard  to  the  form,  care  must  be  taken  to 
see  that  the  differentia  does  not  repeat  the  term  to 
be  defined,  nor  use  any  term  derived  from  the  same 
root.  Trying  to  define  a  term  by  means  of  virtually 
the  same  term  would  be  like  traveling  in  a  circle; 
no  advance  would  be  made.  Thus,  to  define  freedom 
as  **  the  ability  to  act  freely  ''  would  be  inadmissible. 
It  is  advisable,  also,  that  a  definition  should  be  couched 
in  as  simple  and  concise  a  form  as  possible.  Other 
things  being  equal,  the  simpler  and  more  concise  a 
definition  is  the  better.  Dr.  Johnson's  famous  defini- 
tion of  network  as  **  anything  reticulated  or  decus- 
sated, at  equal  distances,  with  intersections  between 
the  interstices, "  is  a  good  illustration  of  the  definition 
which  violates  the  principle  of  simplicity.  Simplicity, 
however,  is  a  relative  term,  and  there  are  times  when 
the  learned  word  is  unavoidable.  The  following  defi- 
nition of  evolution  by  Herbert  Spencer,  though  not 
couched  in  terms  very  familiar  to  the  average  man, 
would  probably  not  be  greatly  improved  either  in 
lucidity  or  in  precision  if  it  were  much  simplified: 
**  Evolution  is  a  continuous  change  from  an  indefinite 
incoherent  homogeneity  to  a  definite  coherent  hetero- 
geneity through  successive  differentiations  and  inte- 
grations.'' 

A  logical  definition  is  not  of  itself,  of  course,  suflS- 
cient  to  present  the  full  content  of  an  idea.  It  may 
serve  as  a  sort  of  nucleus  out  of  which  the  complete 


62  EXPOSITION 

explanation  may  grow,  or  as  a  means  of  putting  the 
gist  of  the  explanation  succinctly  before  the  reader; 
but  it  cannot  take  the  place  of  the  complete  discourse. 
To  be  able  to  grasp  the  full  meaning  of  a  thought  or 
conception,  the  reader  must  have  a  thorough  analysis 
of  what  it  contains.  This  means  a  presentation  of 
its  main  points  from  as  many  different  sides  as 
possible.  Hence  a  definition,  if  it  be  made  the  start- 
ing point  of  an  exposition,  must  be  enlarged  upon. 
An  expository  composition  of  the  defining  kind  may, 
indeed,  be  regarded  simply  as  an  expanded  definition. 
In  the  following  examples  the  student  will  observe 
that  the  writers  begin  with  a  simple  definition  or 
description,  which  may  easily  be  put  into  the  form  of 
a  logical  definition,  and  follow  this  up  by  showing 
what  the  definition  implies  as  well  as  expresses  in 
explicit  terms : 

Science  is,  I  believe,  nothing  but  trained  and  organ- 
ized common  sense,  differing  from  the  latter  only  as  a 
veteran  may  differ  from  a  raw  recruit:  and  its  methods 
differ  from  those  of  common  sense  only  so  far  as  the 
guardsman's  cut  and  thrust  differ  from  the  manner  in 
which  a  savage  wields  his  club.  The  primary  power  is 
the  same  in  each  case,  and  perhaps  the  untutored  savage 
has  the  more  brawny  arm  of  the  two.  The  real  advantage 
lies  in  the  point  and  polish  of  the  swordsman's  weapon; 
in  the  trained  eye  quick  to  spy  out  the  weakness  of  the 
adversary;  in  the  ready  hand  prompt  to  follow  it  on  the 
instant.  But  after  all,  the  sword  exercise  is  only  the 
hewing  and  poking  of  the  clubman  developed  and 
perfected. 

So,  the  vast  results  obtained  by  Science  are  won  by  no 


EXPOSITION  WHICH  AIMS  TO  DEFINE       63 

mystical  faculties,  by  no  mental  processes  other  than  those 
which  are  practised  by  every  one  of  us  in  the  humblest 
and  meanest  affairs  of  life.  A  detective  policeman  discov- 
ers a  burglar  from  the  marks  made  by  his  shoe,  by  a 
mental  process  identical  with  that  by  which  Cuvier  restored 
the  extinct  animals  of  Montmartre  from  fragments  of  their 
bones.  Nor  does  that  process  of  induction  and  deduction 
by  which  a  lady,  finding  a  stain  of  a  peculiar  kind  upon 
her  dress,  concludes  that  somebody  has  upset  the  inkstand 
thereon,  differ  in  any  way,  in  kind,  from  that  by  which 
Adams  and  Leverrier  discovered  a  new  planet.^ 

If  I  were  asked  to  describe  as  briefly  and  popularly  as  I 
could,  what  a  University  was,  I  should  draw  my  answer 
from  its  ancient  designation  of  a  Studium  Generale,  or 
"  School  of  Universal  Learning."  This  description  implies 
the  assemblage  of  strangers  from  all  parts  in  one  spot: — 
from  all  parts;  else,  how  will  you  find  professors  and 
students  for  eveiy  department  of  knowledge?  and  in  one 
spot;  else,  how  can  there  be  any  school  at  all?  Accord- 
ingly, in  its  simple  and  rudimental  form,  it  is  a  school  of 
knowledge  of  every  kind,  consisting  of  teachers  and  learners 
from  every  quarter.  Many  things  are  requisite  to  com- 
plete and  satisfy  the  idea  embodied  in  this  description;  but 
such  as  this  a  University  seems  to  be  in  its  essence,  a  place 
for  the  communication  and  circulation  of  thought,  by 
means  of  personal  intercourse,  through  a  wide  extent 
of  country. 

But  I  have  said  more  than  enough  in  illustration;  I  end 
as  I  began; — a  University  is  a  place  of  concourse,  whither 
students  come  from  every  quarter  for  every  kind  of  knowl- 
edge.   You  cannot  have  the  best  of  every  kind  everywhere; 

*  From  Huxley's  Essays. 


64  EXPOSITION 

you  must  go  to  some  great  city  or  emporium  for  it.  There 
you  have  all  the  choicest  productions  of  nature  and  art  all 
together,  which  you  find  each  in  its  own  separate  place  else- 
where. All  the  riches  of  the  land,  and  of  the  earth,  are 
carried  up  thither,  there  are  the  best  markets,  and  there 
the  best  workmen.  It  is  the  center  of  trade,  the  supreme 
court  of  fashion,  the  umpire  of  rival  talents,  and  the 
standard  of  things  rare  and  precious.  It  is  the  place  for 
seeing  galleries  of  first-rate  pictures,  and  for  hearing  won- 
derful voices  and  performers  of  transcendent  skill.  It  is 
the  place  for  great  preachers,  great  orators,  great  nobles, 
great  statesmen.  In  the  nature  of  things,  greatness  and 
unity  go  together;  excellence  implies  a  center.  And  such, 
for  the  third  or  fourth  time,  is  a  University;  I  hope  I  do 
not  weary  out  the  reader  by  repeating  it.  It  is  the  place 
to  which  a  thousand  schools  make  contributions;  in  which 
the  intellect  may  safely  range  and  speculate,  sure  to  find 
its  equal  in  some  antagonist  activity,  and  its  judge  in  the 
tribunal  of  truth.  It  is  a  place  where  inquiry  is  pushed 
forward,  and  discoveries  verified  and  perfected,  and  rash- 
ness rendered  innocuous,  and  error  exposed,  by  the  collision 
of  mind  with  mind,  and  knowledge  with  knowledge.  It  is 
the  place  where  the  professor  becomes  eloquent,  and  is  a 
missionary  and  a  preacher,  displaying  his  science  in  its 
most  complete  and  most  winning  form,  pouring  it  forth 
with  the  zeal  of  enthusiasm,  and  lighting  up  his  own  love 
of  it  in  the  breasts  of  his  hearers.  It  is  the  place  where 
the  catechist  makes  good  his  ground  as  he  goes,  treading 
in  the  truth  day  by  day  into  the  ready  memory,  and  wedg- 
ing and  tightening  it  into  the  expanding  reason.  It  is  a 
place  which  wins  the  admiration  of  the  young  by  its  celeb- 
rity, kindles  the  affections  of  the  middle-aged  by  its  beauty, 
and  rivets  the  fidelity  of  the  old  by  its  associations.  It 
is  a  seat  of  wisdom,  a  light  of  the  world,  a  minister  of  the 
faith,  an  Alma  Mater  of  the  rising  generation.    It  is  this 


EXPOSITION  WHICH  AIMS  TO  DEFINE       65 

and  a  great  deal  more,  and  demands  a  somewhat  better 
head  and  hand  than  mine  to  describe  it  well.^ 

The  correlative  of  definition  is  classification.  Clas- 
sification may  be  defined  simply  as  the  explaining 
of  the  relationship,  or  lack  of  relationship,  subsist- 
ing among  a  series  of  things  in  such  a  way  that 
these  things  fall  naturally  into  distinct  groups.  As 
Huxley  expresses  it,  the  classification  of  any  series 
of  objects  means  **  the  actual,  or  ideal,  arrangement 
together  of  those  which  are  like  and  the  separation 
of  those  which  are  unlike ;  the  purpose  of  this  arrange- 
ment being  to  facilitate  the  operations  of  the  mind  in 
clearly  conceiving  and  retaining  in  the  memory  the 
characters  of  the  objects  in  question."  * 

Exposition  of  this  kind  is  based  upon  the  logical 
division.  In  its  strictly  logical  sense,  the  term 
'*  division  '*  means  simply  the  breaking  up  of  a 
genus  into  its  constituent  species.  In  its  freer  and 
more  literary  use,  however,  the  term  means  much  more 
than  this.  The  object  of  expository  division,  or  classi- 
fication as  it  is  more  commonly  called,  is  not  so  much 
to  give  an  exact  enumeration  of  the  species  into  which 
a  genus  may  be  divided  as  to  enable  the  writer  to 
take  a  comprehensive  and  systematic  survey  of  the 
whole  and  of  the  parts.  Hence  it  takes  into  account 
the  purpose  the  writer  had  in  mind  in  making  the 
classification,  and  allows  him  to  adapt  it  to  that  pur- 

*  From  Newman's  "  What  is  a  University " ;  see  his  His- 
torical Sketches,  Vol.  Ill,  chapter  ii. 

2  See  Huxley*s  Introduction  to  the  Classification  of  Animals. 


66 


EXPOSITION 


pose.  A  classification  such  as  that  contained  in  the 
following  passage,  for  example,  has  little  of  the  exact- 
ness which  a  strictly  logical  division  would  demand; 
yet  for  the  purpose  the  writer  had  in  view,  it  is 
exceedingly  useful: 

The  human  element  in  production,  whether  in  the  work 
of  guidance  or  in  obedience,  varies  as  widely  as  human 
nature  and  capacity.  Tot  homines,  tot  capacitates.  For 
services  to  production,  laborers  may  be  roughly  classified 
by  strata,  as  in  the  accompanying  diagram: 


The  unskilled  men  in  A,  the  slightly  skilled  in  B,  the 
highly  skilled  artisans  in  C  (such  as  the  locomotive  engi- 
neers), the  highly  educated  pro- 
fessional men  in  D  (such  as  civil 
engineers,  electrical  experts,  and 
the  like),  and  finally  the  excep- 
tionally capable  managers  in  E. 
In  any  one  industry  some  of 
each  kind  are  required,  but  not 
with  the  same  intensity  of  de- 
mand; nor  are  they  wanted  in 
the  same  relative  numbers  in 
different  industries. 

The  unskilled  man  in  A  has 
no  choice  of  occupations  that 
he  can  enter;  he  can  do  only  the  work  demanded  of  his 
class.  And  yet,  as  compared  with  the  demand  for  them, 
the  number  in  this  strata  is  enormously  large.  Moreover, 
in  the  A  class  there  is  the  least  capacity  to  set  the  future 
gain  above  the  present  indulgence.  Thus  we  find  increasing 
numbers  in  the  very  group  whose  activity  is  restricted  to  a 
given  kind  of  work.    Among  those  least  competent  to  add 


EXPOSITION  WHICH  AIMS  TO  DEFINE       67 

to  production,  there  is  the  greatest  supply  relatively  to 
the  demand  for  them.  Their  share  is  small,  not  only  be- 
cause their  industrial  efficiency  is  small,  but  because  the 
supply  of  them  is  excessive. 

As  we  go  up  in  the  scale  of  industrial  efficiency,  we  find 
the  numbers  in  the  strata  of  the  more  highly  skilled  dimin- 
ishing, while  the  intensity  of  the  demand  for  them  increases. 
Hence  wages  increase  the  higher  we  go.  In  the  top  strata, 
containing  the  most  efficient  managers,  we  find  the  highest 
wages  paid  throughout  the  whole  industrial  field.  When 
a  blundering  or  incompetent  manager  costs  a  company 
millions  in  losses,  a  fifty-thousand-dollar  man,  who  adds 
millions  in  gains,  is  a  cheap  laborer.  In  this  struggle  up 
the  scale  from  A  to  E  v^e  find  the  real  social  conflict.  It 
is  a  contest  between  different  kinds  of  laborers, — a  con- 
test of  varying  grades  of  industrial  capacity  with  each 
other.  It  is  a  free-to-all  race,  in  which  the  most  competent 
win.  The  great  industrial  manager,  being  the  most  highly 
skilled  laborer,  obtains  enormous  wages  for  exceptional 
services  to  production.  This  exposition  gives  us,  in  brief, 
the  economic  reason  why,  in  a  country  of  phenomenal  re- 
sources like  the  United  States,  men  of  exceptional  industrial 
ability  can  acquire  exceptionally  large  fortunes  legiti- 
mately.^ 

Expository  classification  is  thus,  as  we  see,  some- 
thing more  than  mere  logical  division.  Nevertheless, 
a  good  classification  always  conforms  to  the  rules 
which  govern  logical  division.  These  rules  are:  (1) 
There  must  be  only  one  principle  of  division;  (2) 
There  must  be  no  overlapping  in  the  classes  or  species ; 
(3)  The  sum  of  the  species  must  equal  the  genus  or 
class  divided. 

*  J.  Lawrence  Laughlin,  Atlantic  Monthly,  July,  1905. 


68  EXPOSITION 

The  first  of  these  rules  is  especially  important,  in- 
asmuch as  a  change  in  the  principle  of  division  abso- 
lutely vitiates  a  classification.  Thus  if  we  were  to 
classify  the  people  of  Asia  as  Mongolians,  Malayans, 
Hindus,  and  Mohammedans,  we  should  be  proceeding 
first  on  the  principle  of  racial  character,  and  then 
on  that  of  religion.  There  would  therefore  be  no 
unity  or  meaning  in  our  classification.  It  would  be 
like  filing  letters  at  haphazard,  now  according  to  the 
writers'  names,  and  again  according  to  some  other 
principle.  The  rule  against  overlapping  or  cross  divi- 
sion, as  it  is  sometimes  called,  is  also  important,  since, 
if  the  classes  are  not  distinct,  the  classification  loses 
much,  if  not  all,  its  value.  To  classify  the  writings 
which  make  up  literature,  for  example,  as  poetry, 
fiction,  history,  biography,  and  the  essay,  would  be 
objectionable,  because  the  classes  '  *  poetry  ' '  and  *  *  fic- 
tion '*  would  not  be  mutually  exclusive;  a  romance 
such  as  Scott's  Lady  of  the  Lake,  for  example,  might 
be  put  in  either.  As  to  the  question  of  exhaustive- 
ness,  the  rule  is  imperative  only  where  exactness 
and  precision  are  of  first  importance.  In  ordinary 
literary  exposition  it  is  seldom  insisted  on.  A  clas- 
sification may  have  great  practical  value  even  if 
it  be  not  exhaustive.  In  fact,  no  classification  can 
be  held  to  be  absolutely  exhaustive,  logically  speaking, 
unless  it  is  made  according  to  the  method  known  as 
dichotomy,  where  there  are  only  two  divisions,  one 
of  which  is  expressly  stated  to  contain  all  the  indi- 
viduals of  the  genus  not  included  in  the  other.  For 
example,  the  citizens  of  the  United  States  may  be 
classed  as  those  who  have  the  right  to  vote,  and  those 


EXPOSITION  WHICH  AIMS  TO  DEFINE       69 

who  have  not.  The  classification  is  absolutely  ex- 
haustive, since  every  citizen  must  belong  to  either  the 
one  or  the  other  of  these  two  classes. 

It  should  be  noted  that  classification  always  implies 
definition.  The  two,  indeed,  very  commonly  go  to- 
gether. Whenever  we  make  a  classification,  we  do 
so  on  the  supposition  that  the  various  classes  can  be 
defined.  Exposition  by  classification  is  generally,  in 
fact,  first  a  division  and  then  a  definition  of  each 
member  of  the  division.  Notice  how,  in  the  following, 
Huxley  first  divides  the  science  of  zoology  into  its 
various  subordinate  sciences,  and  then  defines  each 
one  of  these  in  turn : 

I  shall  use  the  term  zoology  as  denoting  the  whole  doc- 
trine of  animal  life,  in  contradistinction  to  botany,  which 
signifies  the  whole  doctrine  of  vegetable  life. 

Employed  in  this  sense,  zoology,  like  botany,  is  divisible 
into  three  great  but  subordinate  sciences, — morphology, 
physiology,  and  distribution, — each  of  which  may,  to  a  very 
great  extent,  be  studied  irdependently  of  the  other. 

Zoological  morphology  is  the  doctrine  of  animal  form  or 
structure.  Anatomy  is  one  of  its  branches;  development 
is  another;  while  classification  is  the  expression  of  the  rela- 
tions which  different  animals  bear  to  one  another,  in  re- 
spect to  their  anatomy  and  their  development. 

Zoological  distribution  is  the  study  of  animals  in  relation 
to  the  terrestrial  conditions  which  obtain  now,  or  have 
obtained  at  any  previous  epoch  of  the  earth's  history. 

Zoological  physiology,  lastly,  is  the  doctrine  of  the  func- 
tions or  actions  of  animals.  It  regards  animal  bodies  as 
machines  impelled  by  certain  forces,  and  performing  an 
amount  of  work  which  can  be  expressed  in  terms  of  the 
ordinary  forces  of  nature.    The  final  object  of  physiology 


70  EXPOSITION 

is  to  deduct  the  facts  of  morphology  on  the  one  hand,  and 
those  of  distribution  on  the  other,  from  the  laws  of  the 
molecular  forces  of  matter.^ 


4.   DESCRIPTIVE  AND  ILLUSTRATIVE  EXPOSITION 

As  has  been  said,  the  typical  moods  of  exposition 
are  definition  and  classification.  Exposition,  however, 
is  often  used  for  various  explanatory  or  illustrative 
processes  not  formal  or  exact  enough  to  be  brought 
under  the  category  of  definition  or  of  classification. 
Among  such  uses  may  be  mentioned,  (1)  the  descrip- 
tion of  a  type-form  or  the  setting  forth  of  the  general 
characteristics  of  a  class  of  things ;  (2)  the  explanation 
of  a  method  or  process;  (3)  the  illustration  of  a  gen- 
eral law  or  the  application  of  it  to  particular  cases. 

In  the  first  of  these  uses  we  have  a  kind  of  writing 
which  suggests  description,  on  the  one  hand,  and 
definition,  on  the  other.  In  some  cases  it  verges  so 
closely  upon  description  that  it  can  scarcely  be  dis- 
tinguished from  that  form;  it  always  deals  with  the 
type  or  with  a  class  of  things,  however,  whereas  de- 
scription properly  deals  with  the  individual  rather 
than  with  the  type.  In  trying  to  set  forth  the  general 
characteristics  of  a  type-form  or  of  a  class  of  things, 
descriptive  exposition,  to  be  sure,  is  trying  to  do  very 
much  the  same  thing  as  is  done  in  definition ;  but  its 
method  is  usually  more  suggestive  of  description 
than  of  definition. 

An  illustration  or  two  will  make  the  point  clear, 

*  See  Huxley's  Lay  Sermons. 


DESCRIPTIVE  EXPOSITION  71 

and  serve  to  show  the  general  method  of  this  kind 
of  exposition: 

The  woodehiick  always  burrows  on  a  side-hill.  This  en- 
ables him  to  guard  against  being  drowned  out,  by  making 
the  termination  of  the  hole  higher  than  the  entrance.  He 
digs  in  slantingly  for  about  two  or  three  feet,  then  makes 
a  sharp  upward  turn  and  keeps  nearly  parallel  with 
the  surface  of  the  ground  for  a  distance  of  eight  or  ten 
feet  farther,  according  to  the  grade.  Here  he  makes  his 
nest  and  passes  the  winter,  holing  up  in  October  or  No- 
vember and  coming  out  again  in  April.  This  is  a  long 
sleep,  and  is  rendered  possible  only  by  the  amount  of  fat 
with  which  the  system  has  become  stored  during  the  sum- 
mer. The  fire  of  life  still  burns,  but  very  faintly  and 
slowly,  as  with  the  draughts  all  closed  and  the  ashes  heaped 
up.  Respiration  is  continued,  but  at  longer  intervals,  and 
all  the  vital  processes  are  nearly  at  a  standstill.  Dig  one 
out  during  hibernation  .  .  .  and  you  find  it  a  mere  inani- 
mate ball,  that  suffers  itself  to  be  moved  and  rolled  about 
without  showing  signs  of  awakening.  But  bring  it  in  by 
the  fire,  and  it  presently  unrolls  and  opens  its  eyes,  and 
crawls  feebly  about,  and  if  left  to  itself  will  seek  some 
dark  hole  or  comer,  roll  itself  up  again,  and  resume  its 
former  condition.^ 

But  Nature's  most  common  device  for  the  protection  and 
preservation  of  her  desert  brood  is  to  supply  them  with 
wonderful  facilities  for  finding  and  sapping  what  moisture 
there  is,  and  conserving  it  in  tanks  and  reservoirs.  The 
roots  of  the  greasewood  and  the  mesquite  are  almost  as 
powerful  as  the  arms  of  an  octopus,  and  they  are  frequently 
three  times  the  length  of  the  bush  or  tree  they  support. 

*  From  Pepacton,  by  John  Burroughs. 


72  EXPOSITION 

They  will  bore  their  way  through  rotten  granite  to  find  a 
damp  ledge  almost  as  easily  as  a  diamond  drill;  and  they 
will  pry  rocks  from  their  foundations  as  readily  as  the 
wistaria  wrenches  the  ornamental  woodwork  from  the  roof 
of  a  porch.  They  are  always  thirsty  and  they  are  always 
running  here  and  there  in  the  search  for  moisture.  A 
vertical  section  of  their  underground  structure  revealed  by 
the  cutting  away  of  a  river  bank  or  wash  is  usually  a  great 
surprise.  One  marvels  at  the  great  network  of  roots 
required  to  support  such  a  very  little  growth  above  ground.^ 

In  writing  which  aims  to  explain  a  method  or 
process  of  any  kind,  we  have  another  variety  of 
exposition  which  deals  with  the  type.  The  process 
or  method  explained  is,  of  course,  always  that  which 
is  regarded  as  the  normal  or  usual  one  followed  in 
bringing  about  such  and  such  results.  The  most 
familiar  example  of  this  kind  of  exposition,  perhaps, 
is  the  ordinary  recipe  of  the  cook-books.  In  this 
case,  the  exposition  takes  the  form  of  directions  to 
be  carried  out  in  action.  It  is  not  necessary,  however, 
that  in  the  explanation  of  a  process  there  should  be 
any  idea  that  the  directions  given  are  to  be  actually 
translated  into  action ;  the  explanation  of  the  working 
of  a  plan,  for  instance,  may  be  given  without  any 
thought  that  the  plan  is  ever  to  be  put  into  operation. 

The  ordinary  form  of  this  kind  of  exposition  may 
be  illustrated  by  the  following: 

The  country  before  us  was  now  thronged  with  buffalo, 
and  a  sketch  of  the  manner  of  hunting  them  will  not  be 
out  of  place.     There  are  two  methods  commonly  practised 

1  From  The  Desert,  by  J.  C.  Van  Dyke. 


DESCRIPTIVE  EXPOSITION  73 

— "  running  "  and  "  approaching."  The  chase  on  horseback, 
which  goes  by  the  name  of  "  running,"  is  the  more  violent 
and  dashing  mode  of  the  two.  Indeed,  of  all  American 
wild  sports  this  is  the  wildest.  Once  among  the  buffalo, 
the  hunter,  unless  long  use  has  made  him  familiar  with 
the  situation,  dashes  forward  in  utter  recklessness  and  self- 
abandonment.  He  thinks  of  nothing,  cares  for  nothing,  but 
the  game;  his  mind  is  stimulated  to  the  highest  pitch,  yet 
intensely  concentrated  on  one  object.  In  the  midst  of  the 
flying  herd,  where  the  uproar  and  the  dust  are  thickest,  it 
never  wavers  for  a  moment;  he  drops  the  rein  and  abandons 
his  horse  to  his  furious  career;  he  levels  his  gun,  the  report 
sounds  faint  amid  the  thunder  of  the  buffalo;  and  when 
his  wounded  enemy  leaps  in  vain  fury  upon  him,  his  heart 
thrills  with  a  feeling  like  the  fierce  delight  of  the  battle- 
field. A  practised  and  skilful  hunter,  well  mounted,  will 
sometimes  kill  five  or  six  cows  in  a  single  chase,  loading  his 
gun  again  and  again  as  his  horse  rushes  through  the  tumult. 
An  exploit  like  this  is  quite  beyond  the  capacities  of  a 
novice.  In  attacking  a  small  band  of  buffalo,  or  in  sep- 
arating a  single  animal  from  the  herd  and  assailing  it  apart 
from  the  rest,  there  is  less  excitement  and  less  danger.  With 
a  bold  and  well-trained  horse  the  hunter  may  ride  so  close 
to  the  buffalo  that,  as  they  gallop  side  by  side,  he  may 
reach  over  and  touch  him  with  his  hand;  nor  is  there  much 
danger  in  this  as  long  as  the  buffalo's  strength  and  breath 
continue  unabated;  but  when  he  becomes  tired  and  can  no 
longer  run  with  ease,  when  his  tongue  lolls  out  and  the 
foam  flies  from  his  jaws,  then  the  hunter  had  better  keep 
a  more  respectful  distance;  the  distressed  brute  may  turn 
upon  him  at  any  instant;  and  especially  at  the  moment 
when  he  fires  his  gun.  The  wounded  buffalo  springs  at  his 
enemy;  the  horse  leaps  violently  aside;  and  then  the  hunter 
has  need  of  a  tenacious  seat  in  the  saddle,  for  if  he  is 
thrown  to  the  ground  there  is  no  hope  for  him.    When  he 


74  EXPOSITION 

sees  his  attack  defeated  the  buffalo  resumes  his  flight,  but 
if  the  shot  be  well  directed  he  soon  stops;  for  a  few  mo- 
ments he  stands  still,  then  totters  and  falls  heavily  upon  the 
prairie. 

The  method  of  "approaching,"  being  practised  on  foot, 
has  many  advantages  over  that  of  "running";  in  the 
former,  one  neither  breaks  down  his  horse  nor  endangers 
his  own  life;  instead  of  yielding  to  excitement,  he  must  be 
cool,  collected,  and  watchful;  he  must  understand  the  buf- 
falo, observe  the  features  of  the  country  and  the  course  of 
the  wind,  and  be  well  skilled,  moreover,  in  using  the  rifle. 
The  buffalo  are  strange  animals;  sometimes  they  are  so 
stupid  and  infatuated  that  a  man  may  walk  up  to  them  in 
full  sight  on  the  open  prairie,  and  even  shoot  several  of 
their  number  before  the  rest  will  think  it  necessary  to 
retreat.  Again,  at  another  moment,  they  will  be  so  shy  and 
wary  that  in  order  to  approach  them  the  utmost  skill,  ex- 
perience, and  judgment  are  necessary.^ 

With  regard  to  the  method  of  that  type  of  exposi- 
tion which  aims  to  show  the  operation  of  a  general 
law  or  its  application  to  particular  cases,  nothing 
special  needs  to  be  said.  Examples  of  the  type  are 
given  among  the  specimens  reprinted  below. 


5.   LITERARY  CRITICISM 

Literary  criticism  is  a  kind  of  writing  almost  dis- 
tinctive enough  to  deserve  recognition  as  a  species  by 
itself.    As  its  main  purpose  is  expository,  however, 

*From  Parkman's  Oregon  Trail, 


LITERARY  CRITICISM  75 

it  may  properly  enough  be  regarded  as  a  particular 
variety  of  exposition.  Certain  of  its  forms,  as  for 
instance,  what  is  often  called  appreciation  or  inter- 
pretation, might,  indeed,  more  fittingly  be  regarded 
as  making  their  appeal  to  the  feelings  rather  than 
to  the  understanding;  but  even  in  such  cases,  if  the 
main  purpose  be  not  expository,  there  is  always  a  very 
definite  appeal  to  the  understanding. 

Criticism  is  of  course  one  of  the  most  common, 
as  it  certainly  is  one  of  the  most  useful,  kinds  of 
writing.  No  one  can  read  all  the  books  published 
nowadays;  and  if  one  wishes  to  be  informed  as  to 
what  is  best  worth  reading,  one  must  look  largely 
to  criticism  for  guidance. 

We  should  make  a  distinction  between  the  criticism 
of  books  which  are  accepted  as  classics,  or  are  at  least 
well-known,  and  the  criticism  which  deals  with  the 
books  of  the  day, — ^that  is  to  say,  the  ordinary  book 
review.  The  criticism  of  a  classic  implies,  on  the 
part  of  the  reader,  some  knowledge  of  the  work  criti- 
cised ;  the  critic  justifies  his  notice  of  the  work  either 
by  giving  us  some  fresh  information  about  it  or  by 
giving  us  an  appreciation  of  it  from  a  new  point  of 
view.  The  ordinary  book  review  is  on  a  much  lower 
plane,  usually,  than  criticism  of  this  kind.  Its  first 
aim,  naturally,  is  to  tell  the  reader  something  about 
the  contents  of  the  book  it  discusses;  but  it  should 
also  aim  to  give  him  an  idea  of  the  writer's  style  and 
of  the  skill  or  power  with  which  he  treats  his  subject. 

In  the  specimens  given  below,  the  reader  will 
find  an  example  of  the  appreciation  of  a  classic,  and 
an  example,  also,  of  the  ordinary  book  review. 


Ill 

SPECIMENS  OP  EXPOSITION 

The  Great  Author  ^ 

A  great  author,  gentlemen,  is  not  one  who  merely  has  a 
copia  verborum,  whether  in  prose  or  verse,  and  can,  as  it 
were,  turn  on  at  his  will  any  number  of  splendid  phrases  and 
swelling  sentences;  but  he  is  one  who  has  something  to 
say  and  knows  how  to  say  it.  I  do  not  claim  for  him,  as 
such,  any  great  depth  of  thought,  or  breadth  of  view,  or 
philosophy,  or  sagacity,  or  knowledge  of  human  nature,  or 
experience  of  human  life,  though  these  additional  gifts  he 
may  have,  and  the  more  he  has  of  them  the  greater  he  is; 
but  I  ascribe  to  him,  as  his  characteristic  gift,  in  a  large 
sense,  the  faculty  of  Expression.  He  is  master  of  the  two- 
fold Logos,  the  thought  and  the  word,  distinct,  but  insep- 
arable from  each  other.  He  may,  if  so  be,  elaborate  his 
compositions,  or  he  may  pour  out  his  improvisations,  but  in 
either  case  he  has  but  one  aim,  which  he  keeps  steadily 
before  him,  and  is  conscientious  and  single-minded  in  ful- 
filling. That  aim  is  to  give  forth  what  he  has  within  him; 
and  from  his  very  earnestness  it  comes  to  pass  that,  what- 
ever be  the  splendor  of  his  diction  or  the  harmony  of  his 
periods,  he  has  with  him  the  charm  of  an  incommunicable 
simplicity.  Whatever  be  his  subject,  high  or  low,  he  treats 
it  suitably  and  for  its  own  sake.  If  he  is  a  poet,  "nil 
molitur  inepte."  ^    If  he  is  an  orator,  then  too  he  speaks,  not 

*  From  Newman's  Idea  of  a  University. 
=^"He   attempts   nothing   injudiciously." 

76 


SPECIMENS  OF  EXPOSITION  77 

only  "distincte"  and  "splendide,"  but  also  "  apte."     His 
page  is  the  lucid  mirror  of  his  mind  and  life — 

Quo  fit,  ut  omnis 
Votiva  pateat  veluti  descripta  tabella 
Vita  senis."  * 

He  writes  passionately,  because  he  feels  keenly;  forcibly, 
because  he  conceives  vividly ;  he  sees  too  clearly  to  be  vague ; 
he  is  too  serious  to  be  otiose;  he  can  analyze  his  subject, 
and  therefore  he  is  rich ;  he  embraces  it  as  a  whole  and  in  its 
parts,  and  therefore  he  is  consistent;  he  has  a  firm  hold 
of  it,  and  therefore  he  is  luminous.  When  his  imagination 
wells  up,  it  overflows  in  ornament ;  when  his  heart  is  touched, 
it  thrills  along  his  verse.  He  always  has  the  right  word 
for  the  right  idea,  and  never  a  word  too  much.  If  he  is 
brief,  it  is  because  few  words  suffice;  when  he  is  lavish  of 
them,  still  each  word  has  its  mark,  and  aids,  not  embar- 
rasses, the  vigorous  march  of  his  elocution.  He  expresses 
what  all  feel,  but  all  cannot  say;  and  his  sayings  pass  into 
proverbs  among  his  people,  and  his  phrases  become  house- 
hold words  and  idioms  of  their  daily  speech,  which  is  tes- 
selated  with  rich  fragments  of  his  language,  as  we  see  in 
foreign  lands  the  marbles  of  Roman  grandeur  worked  into 
the  walls  and  pavements  of  modem  palaces. 

The  Idea  op  a  Gentleman  * 

Hence  it  is  almost  a  definition  of  a  gentleman  to  say  he 
is  one  who  never  inflicts  pain.  This  description  is  both 
refined  and,  as  far  as  it  goes,  accurate.  He  is  mainly  occu- 
pied in  merely  removing  the  obstacles  which  hinder  the  free 

1 "  Wherefore  it  is  that  the  whole  life  of  the  old  (poet)  lies  as 
open  as  if  written  on  a  votive  tablet." 
2  From  Newman's  Idea  of  a  University, 


78  EXPOSITION 

and  unembarrassed  action  of  those  about  him;  and  he  con- 
curs with  their  movements  rather  than  takes  the  initiative 
himself.  His  benefits  may  be  considered  as  parallel  to 
what  are  called  comforts  or  conveniences  in  arrangements 
of  a  personal  nature :  like  an  easy-chair  or  a  good  fire,  which 
do  their  part  in  dispelling  cold  and  fatigue,  though  nature 
provides  both  means  of  rest  and  animal  heat  without  them. 
The  true  gentleman  in  like  manner  carefully  avoids  what- 
ever may  cause  a  jar  or  a  jolt  in  the  minds  of  those  with 
whom  he  is  cast; — all  clashing  of  opinion,  or  collision  of 
feeling,  all  restraint,  or  suspicion,  or  gloom,  or  resentment; 
his  great  concern  being  to  make  every  one  at  their  ease  and 
at  home.  He  has  his  eyes  on  all  his  company;  he  is  tender 
towards  the  bashful,  gentle  towards  the  distant,  and  merciful 
towards  the  absurd;  he  can  recollect  to  whom  he  is  speak- 
ing; he  guards  against  unseasonable  allusions,  or  topics 
which  may  irritate;  he  is  seldom  prominent  in  conversa- 
tion, and  never  wearisome.  He  makes  light  of  favors  while 
he  does  them,  and  seems  to  be  receiving  when  he  is  con- 
ferring. He  never  speaks  of  himself  except  when  com- 
pelled, never  defends  himself  by  a  mere  retort,  he  has  no 
ears  for  slander  or  gossip,  is  scrupulous  in  imputing  motives 
to  those  who  interfere  with  him,  and  interprets  everything 
for  the  best.  He  is  never  mean  or  little  in  his  disputes, 
never  takes  unfair  advantage,  never  mistakes  personalities 
or  sharp  sayings  for  arguments,  or  insinuates  evil  which 
he  dare  not  say  out.  From  a  long-sighted  prudence,  he 
observes  the  maxim  of  the  ancient  sage,  that  we  should  ever 
conduct  ourselves  toward  our  enemy  as  if  he  were  one  day 
to  be  our  friend.  He  has  too  much  good  sense  to  be 
affronted  at  insults,  he  is  too  well  employed  to  remember 
injuries,  and  too  indolent  to  bear  malice.  He  is  patient, 
forbearing,  and  resigned,  on  philosophical  principles;  he 
submits  to  pain,  because  it  is  inevitable;  to  bereavement, 
because  it  is  irreparable,  and  to  death,  because  it  is  his 


SPECIMENS  OF  EXPOSITION  79 

destiny.  If  he  engages  in  controversy  of  any  kind,  his 
disciplined  intellect  presei-ves  him  from  the  blundering  dis- 
courtesy of  better,  perhaps,  but  less  educated  minds;  who, 
like  blunt  weapons,  tear  and  hack  instead  of  cutting  clean, 
who  mistake  the  point  in  argument,  waste  their  strength 
on  trifles,  misconceive  their  adversary,  and  leave  the  ques- 
tion more  involved  than  they  find  it.  He  may  be  right 
or  wrong  in  his  opinion,  but  he  is  too  clear-headed  to  be 
unjust;  he  is  as  simple  as  he  is  forcible,  and  as  brief  as  he  is 
decisive.  Nowhere  shall  we  find  greater  candor,  considera- 
tion, indulgence!  he  throws  himself  into  the  minds  of  his 
opponents,  he  accounts  for  their  mistakes.  He  knows  the 
weakness  of  human  reason  as  well  as  its  strength,  its 
province  and  its  limits.  If  he  be  an  unbeliever,  he  will  be 
too  profound  and  large-minded  to  ridicule  religion  or  to  act 
against  it;  he  is  too  wise  to  be  a  dogmatist  or  fanatic  in 
his  infidelity.  He  respects  piety  and  devotion;  he  even 
supports  institutions  as  venerable,  beautiful,  or  useful,  to 
which  he  does  not  assent;  he  honors  the  ministers  of  re- 
ligion and  it  contents  him  to  decline  its  mysteries  without 
assailing  or  denouncing  them.  He  is  a  friend  of  religious 
toleration,  and  that,  not  only  because  his  philosophy  has 
taught  him  to  look  on  all  forms  of  faith  with  an  impartial 
eye,  but  also  from  the  gentleness  and  effeminacy  of  feeling, 
which  is  the  attendant  on  civilization. 

Not  that  he  may  not  hold  a  religion  too,  in  his  own  way, 
even  when  he  is  not  a  Christian.  In  that  case  his  religion 
is  one  of  imagination  and  sentiment;  it  is  the  embodiment 
of  those  ideas  of  the  sublime,  majestic,  and  beautiful,  with- 
out which  there  can  be  no  large  philosophy.  Sometimes 
he  acknowledges  the  being  of  God,  sometimes  he  invests  an 
unknown  principle  or  quality  with  the  attributes  of  perfec- 
tion. And  this  deduction  of  his  reason,  or  creation  of  his 
fancy,  he  makes  the  occasion  of  such  excellent  thoughts, 
and  the  starting-point  of  so  varied  and  systematic  a  teach- 


80  EXPOSITION 

ing,  that  he  even  seems  like  a  disciple  of  Christianity  itself. 
From  the  very  accuracy  and  steadiness  of  his  logical  powers, 
he  is  able  to  see  what  sentiments  are  consistent  in  those 
who  hold  any  religious  doctrine  at  all,  and  he  appears  to 
others  to  feel  and  to  hold  a  whole  circle  of  theological 
truths,  which  exists  in  his  mind  no  otherwise  than  as  a 
number  of  deductions. 

Japanese  Ancestor  Worship  ^ 

Probably  the  filial  piety  that  centered  about  the  domestic 
altars  of  the  ancient  West  differed  in  little  from  that  which 
yet  rules  the  most  eastern  East.  But  we  miss  in  Japan  the 
Aryan  hearth,  the  family  altar  with  its  perpetual  fire.  The 
Japanese  home-religion  represents,  apparently,  a  much 
earlier  stage  of  the  cult  than  that  which  existed  within 
historic  time  among  the  Greeks  and  Romans.  The  home- 
stead in  Old  Japan  was  not  a  stable  institution  like  the 
Greek  or  the  Roman  home ;  the  custom  of  burying  the  family 
dead  upon  the  family  estate  never  became  general;  the 
dwelling  itself  never  assumed  a  substantial  and  lastmg 
character.  It  could  not  be  literally  said  of  the  Japanese 
warrior,  as  of  the  Roman,  that  he  fought  pro  aris  et  focis. 
There  was  neither  altar  nor  sacred  fire:  the  place  of  these 
was  taken  by  the  spirit-shelf  or  shrine,  with  its  tiny  lamp, 
kindled  afresh  each  evening;  and,  in  early  times,  there 
were  no  Japanese  images  of  divinities.  For  Lares  and 
Penates  there  were  only  the  mortuary  tablets  of  the  an- 
cestors, and  certain  little  tablets  bearing  names  of  other 
gods — ^tutelary  gods.  The  presence  of  these  frail  wooden 
objects  still  makes  the  home;  and  they  may  be,  of  course, 
transported  anywhere. 

To  apprehend  the  full  meaning  of  ancestor-worship  as  a 
family  religion,  a  living  faith,  is  now  difficult  for  the 
Western  mind.  We  are  able  to  imagine  only  in  the  vaguest 
*From  Lafcadio  Hearn's  Japan:   An  Interpretation. 


SPECIMENS  OF  EXPOSITION  81 

way  how  our  Aryan  forefathers  felt  and  thought  about  their 
dead.  But  in  the  living  beliefs  of  Japan  we  find  much  to 
suggest  the  nature  of  the  old  Greek  piety.  Each  member 
of  the  family  supposes  himself,  or  herself,  under  a  perpetual 
ghostly  surveillance.  Spirit-eyes  are  watching  every  act; 
spirit-ears  are  listening  to  every  word.  Thoughts,  too,  not 
less  than  deeds,  are  visible  to  the  gaze  of  the  dead:  the 
heart  must  be  pure,  the  mind  must  be  under  control,  within 
the  presence  of  the  spirits.  Probably  the  influence  of  such 
beliefs,  uninterruptedly  exerted  upon  conduct  during  thou- 
sands of  years,  did  much  to  form  the  charming  side  of 
Japanese  character.  Yet  there  is  nothing  stem  or  solemn 
in  this  home-religion  to-day, — nothing  of  that  rigid  and 
unvarying  discipline  supposed  by  Fustel  de  Coulanges  to 
have  especially  characterized  the  Roman  cult.  It  is  a  re- 
ligion rather  of  gratitude  and  tenderness;  the  dead  being 
served  by  the  household  as  if  they  were  actually  present  in 
the  body.  I  fancy  that  if  we  were  able  to  enter  for  a 
moment  into  the  vanished  life  of  some  old  Greek  city,  we 
should  find  the  domestic  religion  there  not  less  cheerful 
than  the  Japanese  home-cult  remains  to-day.  I  imagine 
that  Greek  children,  three  thousand  years  ago,  must  have 
watched,  like  the  Japanese  children  of  to-day,  for  a  chance 
to  steal  some  of  the  good  things  offered  to  the  ghosts  of 
the  ancestors;  and  I  fancy  that  Greek  parents  must  have 
chidden  quite  as  gently  as  Japanese  parents  chide  in  this 
era  of  Meiji, — mingling  reproof  with  instruction,  and  hint- 
ing of  weird  possibilities. 

The  Kinds  op  Literature  ^ 

All  literature  is  the  result  of  four  great  art  impulses. 
These  are:  the  impulse  to  narrate  events,  either  real  or 

iFrom   W.  H.  Crawshaw's   Tlie  Interpretation  of  Literature, 
by  permission  of  the  Macmillan  Company. 


82  EXPOSITION 

imagined;  the  impulse  to  express  the  subjective  thought 
and  emotion  of  the  writer;  the  impulse  to  portray  human 
life  and  character;  and  the  impulse  to  describe  objects, 
either  real  or  imagined,  either  material  or  spiritual.  If  it 
be  objected  that  this  list  is  incomplete,  the  only  answer 
lies  in  an  appeal  to  literature  itself.  If  other  impulses  ap- 
pear, they  ought  of  course  to  be  included;  but  investiga- 
tion seems  to  show  that  all  actual  literary  works  can  be 
classified  as  resulting  from  one  or  more  of  the  impulses 
here  noted.  These  impulses  have  been  at  work  in  literature 
from  the  beginning;  and,  in  all  probability,  they  will  con- 
tinue, without  increase  or  decrease  to  the  end.  The  par- 
ticular forms  in  which  they  have  manifested  themselves 
have  been  almost  infinitely  diversified,  the  purposes  that 
have  worked  in  harmony  with  them  have  been  no  less  vari- 
ous; but  still,  in  one  or  another  of  these  directions,  literary 
activity  has  always  moved.  Here,  as  elsewhere,  we  see 
that  which  is  simple  in  principle  working  out  to  that 
which  is  multitudinous  in  detail.  When  a  new  literary 
form  is  created,  it  is  by  the  use  of  these  same  elements  in 
new  ways.  When  prose  takes  its  place  as  a  medium  of 
literary  expression,  it  is  moved  by  the  same  instincts  that 
have  been  creating  poetry  for  thousands  of  years.  These 
four  fundamental  impulses  furnish  a  basis  for  four  dif- 
ferent types  of  literary  work.  These  four  types  may  be 
called  the  Narrative,  the  Subjective,  the  Dramatic,  and  the 
Descriptive. 

Turning  first,  then,  to  the  narrative  type,  we  shall  find 
that  the  typical  representative  of  its  verse  form  is  the 
Epic,  and  the  typical  representative  of  its  prose  form  is 
the  Romance.  The  term  epic  has  a  restricted  meaning  in 
which  it  is  applicable  only  to  such  works  as  the  Iliad  and 
the  Odyssey.  It  is  used  here,  however,  to  denote  all  poetry 
in  which  narrative  is  the  distinctive  feature.     This  broader 


SPECIMENS  OF  EXPOSITION  83 

meaning  is  justified  by  modern  usage,  and  also  by  the  fact 
that  narrative  is  the  essential  element  in  the  ancient  epic. 
The  romance  includes  all  prose  works  in  which  narrative 
clearly  predominates  over  portrayal  of  life  and  character. 

In  subjective  literature,  the  typical  verse  form  is  the 
Lyric,  and  the  typical  prose  form  is  the  Essay.  As  to 
substance  and  spirit,  the  lyric  is  the  embodiment  of  sub- 
jective emotion;  as  to  form,  the  original  conception  of  it  as 
something  to  be  sung  has  made  it  the  most  varied  and 
musical  of  all  kinds  of  poetry.  The  essay  is  the  expression 
of  the  personal  thought  and  feeling  of  its  author;  and  both 
in  subject  and  form,  it  has  great  variety.  As  compared 
with  the  lyric,  it  tends  more  toward  thought  and  less  to- 
ward emotion. 

The  tj^pical  poetic  form  of  dramatic  literature  is  the 
Drama;  and  the  typical  prose  form  is  the  Novel.  The 
typical  drama  is  a  combination  of  plot  and  characters,  both 
being  presented  through  the  medium  of  dialogue  and  action, 
and  the  treatment  of  life  being  predominant.  The  drama 
is  found  both  in  prose  and  poetry;  but  in  its  original 
and  typical  form,  it  belongs  to  the  latter.  The  novel  differs 
from  the  romance  as  the  drama  differs  from  the  epic — 
namely,  in  combining  plot  and  character,  with  character  as 
the  leading  feature.  It  differs  from  the  drama  in  its  use 
of  direct  narration.  It  is  distinctly  a  prose  type,  although 
such  a  thing  as  a  novel  in  verse  is  not  altogether  unknown. 

We  have  seen  that  descriptive  literature  is  rightly  to  be 
regarded  as  one  of  the  great  literary  types;  but  that,  in  all 
probability,  its  only  results  are  to  be  found  in  descrip- 
tion diffused  throughout  the  other  literary  types  and  sub- 
ordinate to  them.  Inasmuch,  then,  as  the  descriptive  type 
has  produced  no  strictly  representative  works,  it  is  of  course 
impossible  to  note  any  typical  classes.  Description  appears 
in  both  forms  of  expression,  and  we  may  therefore  speak 
of  descriptive  poetry  and  descriptive  prose;  but  we  cannot 


84 


EXPOSITION 


be  more  definite.  We  are,  indeed,  familiar  in  poetry  with 
the  term  idyl;  but  it  is  not  desirable  to  use  this,  since  it 
denotes  simply  a  poem  in  which  the  descriptive  element  is 
large,  but  not  necessarily  predominant. 

The  classification  here  suggested  may  be  represented  as 
follows : 


NARRATIVE 

SUBJKCTIVK 

DRAMATIC 

DBSCRIPTIVK 

Poetry 
Prose 

Epic 
Romance 

Lyric 
Essay 

Drama 
Novel 

Descriptive  Poetry 
Descriptive  Prose 

This  analysis  may  be  said  to  represent  fairly  the  classi- 
fication of  literature  on  natural  principles  and  by  a  logical 
method.  A  more  minute  classification  would  not  be  in 
place  here;  for  a  consideration  of  the  various  kinds  of  epic, 
lyric,  drama,  etc.,  belongs  rather  to  the  study  of  those 
classes  of  literature.  It  is  sufficient  for  us  to  have  noted 
here  the  great  varieties  of  literature,  which  represent  its 
essential  forms  and  fundamental  instincts.  Beyond  this, 
we  shall  find  that  literary  art  emphasizes  its  liberty  and 
blossoms  out  into  that  infinite  variety  of  detail  which  is 
characteristic  of  all  life. 


The  Influence  of  the  Press  in  America  ^ 

Newspapers  are  influential  in  three  ways — as  narrators, 
as  advocates,  and  as  weathercocks.  They  report  events, 
they  advance  arguments,  they  indicate  by  their  attitude 
what  those  who  conduct  them  and  are  interested  in  their 
circulation  take  to  be  the  prevailing  opinion  of  their  read- 
ers. In  the  first  of  these  regards  the  American  press  is 
the  most  active  in  the  world.     Nothing  escapes  it  which 

*  From  The  American  Commonwealth,  by  James  Bryce,  copy- 
right 1893  and  1910,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


SPECIMENS  OF  EXPOSITION  85 

can  attract  any  class  of  readers.  It  does  not  even  confine 
itself  to  events  that  have  happened,  but  is  apt  to  describe 
others  which  may  possibly  have  happened,  however  slight 
the  evidence  for  them:  pariter  facta  atque  infeeta  canehat. 
This  habit  affects  its  worth  as  an  historic  record  and  its 
influence  with  sober-minded  people.  But  it  is  a  natural 
result  of  the  high  pressure  under  which  the  newspaper 
business  is  carried  on.  The  appetite  for  news,  and  for 
highly  spiced  or  "  sensational "  news,  is  enormous,  and 
journalists  working  under  keen  competition  and  in  un- 
ceasing haste  take  their  chance  of  the  correctness  of  the 
information  they  receive. 

Much  harm  there  is,  but  possibly  as  much  good.  It  is 
related  of  an  old  barrister  that  he  observed :  "  When  I  was 
young  I  lost  a  good  many  causes  which  I  ought  to  have 
won,  and  now,  that  I  have  grown  old  and  experienced,  I 
win  a  good  many  causes  which  I  ought  to  lose.  So  on 
the  whole  justice  has  been  done."  If  in  its  heedlessness 
the  press  sometimes  causes  pain  to  the  innocent,  it  does 
a  great  and  necessary  service  in  exposing  evil-doers,  many 
of  whom  would  escape  were  it  never  to  speak  except  upon 
sufficient  evidence.  It  is  a  watch-dog  whose  noisy  bark 
must  be  tolerated,  even  when  the  person  who  approaches 
has  no  bad  intent.  No  doubt  charges  are  so  promiscuously 
and  often  so  lightly  made  as  to  tell  less  than  they  would 
in  a  country  where  the  law  of  libel  was  more  frequently 
appealed  to.  But  many  abuses  are  unveiled,  many  more 
prevented  by  the  fear  of  publicity. 

Although  the  leading  American  newspapers  contain  far 
more  non-political  matter  than  those  of  Europe,  they  also 
contain,  especially,  of  course,  before  any  important  elec- 
tion, more  domestic  political  intelligence  than  any,  except 
perhaps  two  or  three,  of  the  chief  English  journals.  The 
public  has  the  benefit  of  hearing  everything  it  can  wish, 
and  more  than  it  ought  to  wish,  to  know  about  every  oc- 


86  EXPOSITION 

eurrence  and  every  personality.  The  intelligence  is  not 
quite  of  the  same  kind  as  in  England  or  France.  There 
are  fewer  reports  of  speeches,  because  fewer  speeches  of 
an  argumentative  nature  are  made,  but  more  of  the  schemes 
and  doings  of  conventions  and  political  cliques,  as  well  as  of 
the  sayings  of  individuals. 

As  the  advocates  of  political  doctrines,  newspapers  are 
of  course  powerful,  because  they  are  universally  read  and 
often  ably  written.  They  are  accused  of  unfairness  and 
vituperation,  but  I  doubt  if  there  is  any  marked  difference 
in  this  respect  between  their  behavior  and  that  of  European 
papers  at  a  time  of  excitement.  Nor  could  I  discover  that 
their  arguments  were  any  more  frequently  than  in  Europe 
addressed  to  prejudice  rather  than  to  reason.  In  America, 
however,  a  leading  article  carries  less  weight  of  itself,  being 
discounted  by  the  shrewd  reader  as  the  sort  of  thing  which 
the  paper  must  of  course  be  expected  to  say,  and  is  effective 
only  when  it  takes  hold  of  some  fact  (real  or  supposed), 
and  hammers  it  into  the  public  mind.  This  is  what  the 
unclean  politician  has  to  fear.  Mere  abuse  he  does  not 
care  for,  but  the  constant  references  to  and  comments  on 
misdeeds  of  which  he  cannot  clear  himself  tell  in  the  long 
run  against  him. 

It  is  chiefly  in  its  third  capacity  as  an  index  and  mirror 
of  public  opinion  that  the  press  is  looked  to.  This  is  the 
function  it  chiefly  aims  at  discharging;  and  public  men  feel 
that  in  showing  deference  to  it  they  are  propitiating,  and 
inviting  the  commands  af,  public  opinion  itself.  In  wor- 
shiping the  deity  you  learn  to  conciliate  the  priest.  But 
as  every  possible  view  and  tendency  finds  expression  through 
some  organ  in  the  press,  the  problem  is  to  discover  which 
views  have  got  popular  strength  behind  them.  Professed 
party  journals  are  of  little  use,  though  one  may  sometimes 
discover  from  the  way  they  advance  an  argument  whether 


SPECIMENS  OF  EXPOSITION  87 

they  think  it  will  really  tell  on  the  opposite  party,  or  use 
it  only  because  it  falls  within  their  own  program.  More 
may  therefore  be  gleaned  from  the  independent  or  semi- 
independent  journals,  whereof  there  are  three  classes:  pa- 
pers which,  like  two  or  three  in  the  great  cities,  generally 
support  one  party,  but  are  apt  to  fly  off  from  it  when  they 
disapprove  its  conduct,  or  think  the  people  will  do  so;  pa- 
pers which  devote  themselves  mainly  to  news,  though  they 
may  give  editorial  aid  to  one  or  other  party  according  to 
the  particular  issue  involved,  and  papers  not  professedly 
or  primarily  political.  Of  this  last  class  the  most  impor- 
tant members  are  the  religious  weeklies,  to  whose  number 
and  influence  few  parallels  can  be  discovered  in  Europe. 
They  are  mostly  either  neutral  or  somewhat  loosely  attached 
to  their  party,  usually  the  Republican  party,  because  it 
began  as  the  Free  Soil  party,  and  includes,  in  the  North, 
the  greater  number  of  serious-minded  people.  It  is  only 
on  great  occasions,  such  as  a  presidential  election,  or  when 
some  moral  issue  arises,  that  they  discuss  current  politics 
at  length.  When  they  do  so,  great  is  their  power,  because 
they  are  deemed  to  be  less  "thirled"  to  a  party  or  a 
leader,  because  they  speak  from  a  moral  standpoint,  and 
because  they  are  read  on  Sunday,  a  time  of  leisure,  when 
their  seed  is  more  likely  to  strike  root.  The  monthly 
magazines  deal  less  with  politics  than  do  the  leading  Eng- 
lish monthlies,  but  their  influence  seems  to  grow  with  the 
increasing  amount  of  excellent  writing  they  contain. 

The  Gossamer  Spider  ^ 

On  several  occasions,  when  the  Beagle  had  been  within 
the  mouth  of  the  Plata,  the  rigging  has  been  coated  with 
the  web  of  the  Gossamer  Spider.  One  day  (November 
1st,  1832)  I  paid  particular  attention  to  this  subject.    The 

*From  Darwin's  Voyage  of  the  "  Beagle  J* 


88  EXPOSITION 

weather  had  been  fine  and  clear,  and  in  the  morning  the 
air  was  full  of  patches  of  the  flocculent  web,  as  on  an 
autumnal  day  in  England.  The  ship  was  sixty  miles  dis- 
tant from  the  land,  in  the  direction  of  a  steady  though  light 
breeze.  Vast  numbers  of  a  small  spider,  about  one-tenth 
of  an  inch  in  length,  and  of  a  dusky  red  color,  were  at- 
tached to  the  webs.  There  must  have  been,  I  should  sup- 
pose, some  thousands  on  the  ship.  The  little  spider,  when 
first  coming  in  contact  with  the  rigging,  was  always  seated 
on  a  single  thread,  and  not  on  the  flocculent  mass.  This 
latter  seems  merely  to  be  produced  by  the  entanglement 
of  the  single  threads.  The  spiders  were  all  of  one  species, 
but  of  both  sexes,  together  with  young  ones.  These  latter 
were  distinguished  by  their  smaller  size  and  more  dusky 
color.  I  will  not  give  the  description  of  this  spider,  but 
merely  state  that  it  does  not  appear  to  me  to  be  included 
in  any  of  Latreille's  genera.  The  little  aeronaut  as  soon 
as  it  arrived  on  board  was  very  active,  running  about, 
sometimes  letting  itself  fall,  and  then  reascending  the  same 
thread;  sometimes  employing  itself  in  making  a  small  and 
very  irregular  mesh  in  the  corners  between  the  ropes.  It 
could  run  with  facility  on  the  surface  of  water.  When 
disturbed  it  lifted  up  its  front  legs,  in  the  attitude  of  atten- 
tion. On  its  first  arrival  it  appeared  very  thirsty,  and 
with  exserted  maxillae  drank  eagerly  of  drops  of  water; 
this  same  circumstance  has  been  observed  by  Strack :  may  it 
not  be  in  consequence  of  the  little  insect  having  passed 
through  a  dry  and  rarefied  atmosphere?  Its  stock  of  web 
seemed  inexhaustible.  While  watching  some  that  were  sus- 
pended by  a  single  thread,  I  several  times  observed  that  the 
slightest  breath  of  air  bore  them  away  out  of  sight,  in  a 
horizontal  line.  On  another  occasion  (25th)  under  similar 
circumstances,  I  repeatedly  observed  the  same  kind  of  small 
spider,  either  when  placed  or  having  crawled  on  some  little 
eminence,  elevate  its  abdomen,  send  forth  a  thread,  and  then 


SPECIMENS  OF  EXPOSITION  89 

sail  away  horizontally,  but  with  a  rapidity  which  was  quite 
unaccountable.  I  thought  I  could  perceive  that  the  spider, 
before  performing  the  above  preparatory  steps,  connected 
its  legs  together  with  the  most  delicate  threads,  but  I  am 
not  sure  whether  this  observation  was  correct. 

One  day,  at  St.  Fe,  I  had  a  better  opportunity  of  ob- 
serving some  similar  facts.  A  spider  which  was  about 
three-tenths  of  an  inch  in  length,  and  which  in  its  general 
appearance  resembled  a  Citigrade  (therefore  quite  differ- 
ent from  the  gossamer),  while  standing  on  the  summit 
of  a  post,  darted  forth  four  or  five  threads  from  its  spin- 
ners. These,  glittering  in  the  sunshine,  might  be  com- 
pared to  diverging  rays  of  light;  they  were  not,  however, 
straight,  but  in  undulations  like  films  of  silk  blown  by 
the  wind.  They  were  more  than  a  yard  in  length,  and 
diverged  in  an  ascending  direction  from  the  orifices. 
The  spider  then  suddenly  let  go  its  hold  of  the  post,  and 
was  quickly  borne  out  of  sight.  The  day  was  hot  and 
apparently  quite  calm;  yet  under  such  circumstances,  the 
atmosphere  can  never  be  so  tranquil  as  not  to  affect  a 
vane  so  delicate  as  the  thread  of  a  spider's  web.  If 
during  a  warm  day  we  look  either  at  the  shadow  of  any 
object  cast  on  a  bank,  or  over  a  level  plain  at  a  distant 
landmark,  the  effect  of  an  ascending  current  of  heated 
air  is  almost  always  evident:  such  upward  currents,  it  has 
been  remarked,  are  also  shown  by  the  ascent  of  soap- 
bubbles,  which  will  not  rise  in  an  in-doors  room.  Hence 
I  thuak  there  is  not  much  difficulty  in  understanding  the 
ascent  of  the  fine  lines  projected  from  a  spider's  spinners, 
and  afterwards  of  the  spider  itself;  the  divergence  of  the 
lines  has  been  attempted  to  be  explained,  I  believe  by 
Mr.  Murray,  by  their  similar  electrical  condition.  The 
circumstance  of  spiders  of  the  same  species,  but  of  different 
sexes  and  ages,  being  found  on  several  occasions  at  the 
distance  of  many  leagues  from  the  land,  attached  in  vast 


90  EXPOSITION 

numbers  to  the  lines,  renders  it  probable  that  the  habit 
of  sailing  through  the  air  is  as  characteristic  of  this  tribe, 
as  that  of  diving  is  of  the  Argyroneta.  We  may  then 
reject  Latreille's  supposition,  that  the  gossamer  owes  its 
origin  indifferently  to  the  young  of  several  genera  of 
spiders:  although,  as  we  have  seen,  the  young  of  other 
spiders  do  possess  the  power  of  performing  aerial 
voyages. 

How  TO  Make  New  Varieties  of  Plants  ^ 

There  are  two  distinct  phases  of  plant  breeding.  The 
first  is  "  hybridization  "  or  "  cross-breeding."  This  is  the 
process  by  which  we  cross  different  species  or  varieties  so 
as  to  produce  new  plants  having  some  of  the  characters  of 
both  parents.  The  second  phase  is  "  selection,"  the  choosing 
from  new  plants  those  that  approach  nearest  to  the  ideal  we 
are  seeking.  Most  of  the  improved  forms  of  plants  have 
been  produced  by  selection  alone. 

In  order  to  cross  two  plants  you  have  to  put  the  pollen 
of  one  flower  on  the  pistil  of  another.  The  stamen  has 
three  parts — the  thread-like  stalk,  or  filament,  the  anthers  at 
the  end  of  the  stalk,  and  the  pollen  which  is  borne  in 
the  anthers.  The  pollen  is  the  vital  element  and,  when 
ripe,  is  fine,  dust-like  and  often  highly  colored.  Without 
this  pollen  no  seed  can  be  formed.  The  stamens  are  usually 
located  just  inside  of  the  petals,  but  in  double  flowers  they 
are  intermingled  with  the  inner  rows  of  the  petals  if  present 
at  all. 

The  pistil  or  group  of  pistils  occupies  the  very  center  of 
the  flower.  Like  the  stamen,  it  is  composed  of  three  parts. 
The  essential  part  where  the  seed  is  borne  is  at  the  base, 
and  is  called  the  ovary.    Above  the  ovary  is  a  stalk  called 

*  From  the  Garden  Magazine.  Copyright  by  Doubleday,  Page 
&  Company. 


SPECIMENS  OF  EXPOSITION  91 

the  style,  and  at  the  end  of  this  style  is  the  stigma  or 
place  where  the  pollen  grain  must  fall  to  form  seeds.  The 
stigma  is  usually  knob-shaped. 

Pollination  is  the  placing  of  the  pollen  from  one  plant 
upon  the  stigma  of  another  plant.  Fertilization  takes 
place  when  the  contents  of  the  pollen  grain  unite  with 
the  ovule  or  contents  of  the  ovary.  Until  this  takes  place 
no  seed  is  developed,  no  matter  how  much  pollen  may  be 
present.    Furthermore,  only  one  pollen  grain  can  act. 

In  order  to  be  sure  that  its  own  pollen  does  not  act 
you  must  remove  the  stamens  from  the  flower  you  wish 
to  bear  seed.  Of  course  this  must  be  done  before  any 
pollen  has  been  shed. 

The  necessary  tools  are  few — a  pair  of  forceps  or  com- 
mon tweezers,  or,  lacking  these,  a  common  steel  hairpin, 
a  pair  of  small  scissors,  a  pocket  knife,  some  twine  and 
some  white  paper  for  tags,  or  the  little  price  tags  your 
dry-goods  merchant  uses.  A  little  hand  magnifier  is  nec- 
essary. 

The  choice  of  the  plants  you  are  to  use  is  a  matter 
of  personal  taste.  Flowers,  fruits,  garden  vegetables  all 
are  possibilities. 

After  the  plants  are  chosen  decide  what  you  wish  to 
breed  for.  In  flowers,  quantity  of  bloom,  length  of  bloom- 
period,  color,  hardiness  and  such  characters  are  generally 
considered.  The  important  thing  is  to  have  some  definite 
ideal  of  what  you  wish  to  obtain  and  then  work  toward 
that  ideal.  Indiscriminate  breeding  may  give  you  some 
interesting  results,  but  the  chances  are  that  nothing  of 
value  will  be  obtained.  Don't  try  to  cross  plants  too  far 
apart  botanically.  .  .  Choose  your  plants  from  the  same 
botanical  family  and,  if  possible,  the  same  genus.  Take 
some  common  flower  like  the  geranium  to  start  with. 
Enough  interesting  things  can  be  developed  in  that  one 
flower  to  occupy  you  for  years. 


02  EXPOSITION 

If  the  flowers  of  the  plant  chosen  have  both  stamens 
and  pistil  developed,  the  stamens  must  be  removed  from 
the  one  that  is  to  bear  seed.  To  do  this  take  flowers  in 
which  no  pollen  has  been  shed.  The  half-open  ones  will 
usually  be  in  the  right  condition,  but  in  some  flowers, 
like  the  sweet  pea,  the  pollen  is  shed  before  the  flower 
begins  to  open,  and  in  such  cases  very  young  flowers  must 
be  chosen.  Shed  pollen  gives  the  anther  a  fuzzy,  dusty 
appearance.  Hold  the  flower  carefully  with  one  hand  and, 
with  the  forceps,  carefully  pick  off  the  petals  that  are  in 
the  way.  Then  pick  off  the  anthers.  As  there  are  usually 
very  many  anthers  be  sure  that  you  get  them  all.  Avoid 
any  unnecessary  injury  or  mutilation.  If  the  flowers  are 
in  clusters  you  should  pick  off  all  but  the  ones  you  wish 
to  pollinate.     This  will  give  you  stronger  flowers. 

Since  the  pollen  from  other  flowers  can  easily  be  trans- 
ferred to  yours,  protect  your  flower  from  foreign  pollen 
immediately  after  emasculation  by  covering  it  with  an  ordi- 
nary paper  sack  or  envelope.  Tie  this  on  carefully  but 
firmly.  If  it  is  much  exposed  to  water  you  can  oil  it  with 
grease  or  vaseline. 

After  removing  the  stamens  wait  several  days  before 
you  pollinate,  in  order  to  allow  the  stigma  to  become  ripe 
or  receptive.  The  exact  length  of  time  depends  upon  the 
age  of  the  flower  when  operated  upon — the  younger  the 
flower  the  longer  the  time  you  must  wait.  Here  again 
a  little  observation  will  aid  you,  for,  when  receptive,  the 
stigma  excretes  a  gummy  substance  that  gives  it  a  moist 
appearance.  This  excretion  causes  the  pollen  to  adhere  and 
aids  in  the  process  of  fertilization.  Both  pollen  and  stigma 
will  remain  active  and  receptive  for  several  days  if  pollina- 
tion does  not  take  place  at  first  maturity.  Usually  two  to 
four  days  is  plenty  of  time  to  wait,  but  if  doubtful  pol- 
linate twice  at  an  interval  of  two  or  three  days. 

The  transference  of  the  pollen  may  be  made  in  several 


SPECIMENS  OF  EXPOSITION  93 

ways.  A  common  way  is  to  pick  the  pollen-bearing  flower 
and  rub  or  shake  it  over  the  stigma.  A  more  exact  way  is 
to  pick  off  a  pollen-shedding  stamen  with  the  forceps  and 
rub  it  on  the  stigma.  In  some  cases,  where  considerable 
work  is  to  be  done,  the  pollen  is  collected  on  dry  paper 
or  glass  and  transferred  to  the  stigmas  by  means  of  a  small 
brush.  This  is  the  method  in  the  case  of  strawberries.  For 
accurate  work  in  such  cases  a  new  brush  should  be  used 
for  each  kind  of  pollen.  The  essential  thing  is  that  you 
get  a  single  pollen  grain  upon  a  receptive  stigma,  and  that 
no  foreign  pollen  has  a  chance  to  pollinate  it.  After  pol- 
lination cover  until  the  seeds  begin  to  form. 

When  you  pull  out  the  stamens  tag  the  flower,  and  on 
the  tag  make  the  following  record:  Male  parent,  female 
parent,  when  stamens  were  removed  and  date  of  pollina- 
tion. This  tag  should  remain  till  the  seed  or  fruit  is 
gathered.  As  this  may  be  several  months,  when  the  record 
is  complete  rub  the  tag  with  vaseline  or  grease.  Make 
your  record  with  lead  pencil.  When  the  seed  is  thoroughly 
ripe  carefully  gather  it  and  keep  for  future  planting. 

Seed  formation  is  the  last  step  in  the  first  great  phase 
of  plant  breeding.  For  the  next  phase,  selection,  no  exact 
rules  or  directions  can  be  given.  Too  much  depends  upon 
the  individual  worker  and  the  end  he  has  in  view.  A  few 
general  principles  can  be  given : 

First. — See  that  the  seed  is  thoroughly  ripe,  and  in  sow- 
ing observe  the  general  rules  as  given  in  any  flower  cata- 
logue or  garden  book. 

Second. — Give  the  young  seedlings  every  condition  possi- 
ble for  the  best  growth  and  carefully  note  their  behavior. 
In  this  way  you  can  often  tell  much  as  to  their  thrif tiness, 
habit  of  growth,  etc. 

Third. — Compare  carefully  the  characters  of  the  seedlings 
with  those  of  the  parents,  as  this  will  tell  you  which  ones 
to  select  for  further  work.     Sometimes  one  seedling  will 


92  EXPOSITION 

If  the  flowers  of  the  plant  chosen  have  both  stamens 
and  pistil  developed,  the  stamens  must  be  removed  from 
the  one  that  is  to  bear  seed.  To  do  this  take  flowers  in 
which  no  pollen  has  been  shed.  The  half-open  ones  will 
usually  be  in  the  right  condition,  but  in  some  flowers, 
like  the  sweet  pea,  the  pollen  is  shed  before  the  flower 
begins  to  open,  and  in  such  cases  very  young  flowers  must 
be  chosen.  Shed  pollen  gives  the  anther  a  fuzzy,  dusty 
appearance.  Hold  the  flower  carefully  with  one  hand  and, 
with  the  forceps,  carefully  pick  off  the  petals  that  are  in 
the  way.  Then  pick  off  the  anthers.  As  there  are  usually 
very  many  anthers  be  sure  that  you  get  them  all.  Avoid 
any  unnecessary  injury  or  mutilation.  If  the  flowers  are 
in  clusters  you  should  pick  off  all  but  the  ones  you  wish 
to  pollinate.     This  will  give  you  stronger  flowers. 

Since  the  pollen  from  other  flowers  can  easily  be  trans- 
ferred to  yours,  protect  your  flower  from  foreign  pollen 
immediately  after  emasculation  by  covering  it  with  an  ordi- 
nary paper  sack  or  envelope.  Tie  this  on  carefully  but 
firmly.  If  it  is  much  exposed  to  water  you  can  oil  it  with 
grease  or  vaseline. 

After  removing  the  stamens  wait  several  days  before 
you  pollinate,  in  order  to  allow  the  stigma  to  become  ripe 
or  receptive.  The  exact  length  of  time  depends  upon  the 
age  of  the  flower  when  operated  upon — the  younger  the 
flower  the  longer  the  time  you  must  wait.  Here  again 
a  little  observation  will  aid  you,  for,  when  receptive,  the 
stigma  excretes  a  gummy  substance  that  gives  it  a  moist 
appearance.  This  excretion  causes  the  pollen  to  adhere  and 
aids  in  the  process  of  fertilization.  Both  pollen  and  stigma 
will  remain  active  and  receptive  for  several  days  if  pollina- 
tion does  not  take  place  at  first  maturity.  Usually  two  to 
four  days  is  plenty  of  time  to  wait,  but  if  doubtful  pol- 
linate twice  at  an  interval  of  two  or  three  days. 

The  transference  of  the  pollen  may  be  made  in  several 


SPECIMENS  OF  EXPOSITION  93 

ways.  A  common  way  is  to  pick  the  pollen-bearing  flower 
and  rub  or  shake  it  over  the  stigma.  A  more  exact  way  is 
to  pick  off  a  pollen-shedding  stamen  with  the  forceps  and 
rub  it  on  the  stigma.  In  some  cases,  where  considerable 
work  is  to  be  done,  the  pollen  is  collected  on  dry  paper 
or  glass  and  transferred  to  the  stigmas  by  means  of  a  small 
brush.  This  is  the  method  in  the  case  of  strawberries.  For 
accurate  work  in  such  cases  a  new  brush  should  be  used 
for  each  kind  of  pollen.  The  essential  thing  is  that  you 
get  a  single  pollen  grain  upon  a  receptive  stigma,  and  that 
no  foreign  pollen  has  a  chance  to  pollinate  it.  After  pol- 
lination cover  until  the  seeds  begin  to  form. 

When  you  pull  out  the  stamens  tag  the  flower,  and  on 
the  tag  make  the  following  record:  Male  parent,  female 
parent,  when  stamens  were  removed  and  date  of  pollina- 
tion. This  tag  should  remain  till  the  seed  or  fruit  is 
gathered.  As  this  may  be  several  months,  when  the  record 
is  complete  rub  the  tag  with  vaseline  or  grease.  Make 
your  record  with  lead  pencil.  When  the  seed  is  thoroughly 
ripe  carefully  gather  it  and  keep  for  future  planting. 

Seed  formation  is  the  last  step  in  the  first  great  phase 
of  plant  breeding.  For  the  next  phase,  selection,  no  exact 
rules  or  directions  can  be  given.  Too  much  depends  upon 
the  individual  worker  and  the  end  he  has  in  view.  A  few 
general  principles  can  be  given: 

First. — See  that  the  seed  is  thoroughly  ripe,  and  in  sow- 
ing observe  the  general  rules  as  given  in  any  flower  cata- 
logue or  garden  book. 

Second. — Give  the  young  seedlings  every  condition  possi- 
ble for  the  best  growth  and  carefully  note  their  behavior. 
In  this  way  you  can  often  tell  much  as  to  their  thriftiness, 
habit  of  growth,  etc. 

Third. — Compare  carefully  the  characters  of  the  seedlings 
with  those  of  the  parents,  as  this  will  tell  you  which  ones 
to  select  for  further  work.     Sometimes  one  seedling  will 


96  EXPOSITION 

said  to  be  able  to  subsist  on  fruits  and  berries  in  winter, 
and  to  be  so  active  upon  the  trees  as  to  catch  small  birds 
among  the  branches.  So  also  the  woodchuck  of  Canada 
has  a  dark-brown  fur;  but  then  it  lives  in  burrows  and 
frequents  river  banks,  catching  fish  and  small  animals  that 
live  in  or  near  the  water. 

Among  birds,  the  ptarmigan  is  a  fine  example  of  pro- 
tective coloring.  Its  summer  plumage  so  exactly  harmonizes 
with  the  lichen-colored  stones  among  which  it  delights  to 
sit,  that  a  person  may  walk  through  a  flock  of  them  without 
seeing  a  single  bird;  while  in  winter  its  white  plumage  is 
an  almost  equal  protection.  The  snow-bunting,  the  jer- 
falcon,  and  the  snowy  owl  are  also  v/hite-colored  birds  in- 
habiting the  arctic  regions,  and  there  can  be  little  doubt 
that  their  coloring  is  to  some  extent  protective. 

Nocturnal  animals  supply  us  with  equally  good  illustra- 
tions. Mice,  rats,  bats,  and  moles  possess  the  least  con- 
spicuous of  hues,  and  must  be  quite  invisible  at  times  when 
any  light  color  would  be  instantly  seen.  Owls  and  goat- 
suckers are  of  those  dark  mottled  tints  that  will  assimilate 
with  bark  and  lichen,  and  thus  protect  them  during  the 
day,  and  at  the  same  time  be  inconspicuous  in  the  dusk. 

It  is  only  in  the  tropics,  among  forests  which  never  lose 
their  foliage,  that  we  find  whole  groups  of  birds  whose 
chief  color  is  green.  The  parrots  are  the  most  striking 
example,  but  we  have  also  a  group  of  green  pigeons  in 
the  East;  and  the  barbets,  leaf -thrushes,  bee-eaters,  white- 
eyes,  turacos,  and  several  smaller  groups,  have  so  much 
green  in  their  plumage  as  to  tend  greatly  to  conceal  them 
among  the  foliage. 

Soil  Wastage  through  Tillage^ 

As  soon  as  agriculture  begins,  the  ancient  order  of  the 
soils  is  subverted.    In  order  to  give  his  domesticated  plants 
1  From  N.  S.  Shaler's  Man  and  the  Earth. 


SPECIMENS  OF  EXPOSITION  97 

a  chance  to  grow,  the  soil-tiller  has  to  break  up  the  ancient 
protective  mantle  of  plants,  which  through  ages  of  natural 
selection  became  adjusted  to  their  task,  and  to  expose  the 
ground  to  the  destructive  action  of  the  rain.  How  great 
this  is  may  be  judged  by  inspecting  any  newly  plowed 
field  after  a  heavy  rain.  If  the  surface  has  been  smoothed 
by  the  roller,  we  may  note  that  where  a  potsherd  or  a 
flat  pebble  has  protected  the  soil  it  rests  on  top  of  a  little 
column  of  earth,  the  surrounding  material  having  been 
washed  away  to  the  streams,  where  it  flows  onward  to 
the  sea.  A  single  heavy  rainstorm  may  lower  the  surface 
of  a  tilled  field  to  the  amount  of  an  inch,  a  greater  waste 
than  would,  on  the  average,  be  brought  about  in  natural 
conditions  in  four  or  five  centuries.  The  result  is  that  in 
any  valley  in  which  the  soils  are  subjected  to  an  ordinary 
destructive  tillage  the  deportation  of  the  material  goes  on 
far  more  rapidly  than  their  restoration  by  the  decay  of  the 
underlying  rocks.  Except  for  the  alluvial  plains  where- 
upon the  flood  waters  lay  down  the  waste  of  fields  of 
the  upper  country,  nearly  all  parts  of  the  arable  lands 
which  have  been  long  subjected  to  the  plow  are  thinned 
so  that  they  retain  only  a  part  of  their  original  food- 
yielding  capacity.  Moreover,  the  process  of  cropping 
takes  away  the  soluble  minerals  more  rapidly  than  they 
are  prepared,  so  that  there  is  a  double  waste  in  body 
and  in  the  chemical  materials  needed  by  the  food-givmg 
plants. 

There  is  no  question  that  the  wasting  of  soils  under  the 
usual  tillage  conditions  constitutes  a  very  menacing  evil. 
Whoever  will  go,  with  his  eyes  open  to  the  matter,  about 
the  lands  bordering  on  the  Mediterranean,  will  see  almost 
everywhere  the  result  of  this  process.  Besides  the  general 
pauperizing  of  the  soils,  he  will  find  great  areas  where  the 
fields  have  prevailingly  steep  slopes  from  which  the  rains 
have  stripped  away  the  coatmg  down  to  the  bedrock.    In 


98  EXPOSITION 

Italy,  Greece,  and  Spain,  this  damage  has  gone  so  far  that 
the  food-producing  capacity  of  those  countries  has  been 
greatly  reduced  since  they  were  first  subjected  to  general 
tillage.  There  is  no  basis  for  an  accurate  reckoning,  but 
it  seems  likely  from  several  local  estimates  that  the  average 
loss  of  tillage  value  of  the  region  about  the  Mediterranean 
exceeds  one-third  of  what  it  was  originally.  In  sundry 
parts  of  the  United  States,  especially  in  the  hilly  country 
of  Virginia  and  Kentucky,  the  depth  and  fertility  of  the 
soil  has  in  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  been  shorn 
away  in  like  great  measure.  Except  in  a  few  regions,  as 
in  England  and  Belgium,  where  the  declivities  are  pre- 
vailingly gentle,  it  may  be  said  that  the  tilled  land  of  the 
world  exhibits  a  steadfast  reduction  in  those  features  which 
give  it  value  to  man.  Even  when  the  substance  of  the 
soil  remains  in  unimpaired  thickness,  as  in  the  so-called 
prairie  lands  of  the  Mississippi  valley,  the  progressive 
decrease  on  the  average  returns  to  cropping  shows  that  the 
impoverishment  is  steadfastly  going  on. 

The  Formation  of  Vapor  Drops  ^ 

The  formation  of  the  vapor  drops  that  make  the  cloud 
was  long  a  puzzle  to  science,  but  modem  research  has  at 
last  succeeded  in  solving  this  mystery.  It  has  been  found 
by  experiments  that  if  pure  dry  air,  and  pure  vapor  of 
water,  be  mixed  in  a  clean  vessel,  and  then  cooled  down 
below  the  temperature  of  saturation,  the  drops  of  mist  are 
not  generally  able  to  form.  Purity  means  that  all  the 
particles  of  dust  which  float  in  the  air  have  been  perfectly 
filtered  out,  and  that  all  traces  of  electricity  have  been 
removed  from  the  air  before  mixing  them.  It  was  further 
discovered  that  if  fine   dust  powder  is  injected  into  the 

^From  an  article  by  Frank  H.  Bigelow  on  "The  Formation 
and  Motion  of  Clouds,"  Popular  Science  Monthly,  April,  1902. 


SPECIMENS  OF  EXPOSITION  99 

pure  mixture,  without  changing  the  temperature  or  the 
pressure,  the  drops  of  water  developed  at  once;  also  that 
if  minute  charges  of  electricity,  carried  on  particles  of 
matter  which  may  be  as  small  as  one-thousandth  part  of 
the  mass  of  an  atom  of  hydrogen,  are  introduced,  the  drops 
are  able  to  condense.  It  is  inferred  that  nuclei  of  some 
kind,  dust  particles  or  electric  particles,  called  ions  or 
electrons,  are  required  for  the  formation  of  water  drops 
suspended  in  dry  air,  one  nucleus  for  each  drop.  Hence, 
it  is  possible,  by  counting  the  number  of  minute  drops 
that  form  in  a  cubic  inch,  to  estimate  the  number  of  motes 
of  dust  in  the  air,  and  even  the  number  of  ions  charged 
with  electricity  in  a  given  volume.  The  number  of  the  ions 
contained  in  the  air  may  be  enormous,  ranging  from  20 
per  cubic  centimeter  to  many  millions.  We  perceive  further 
that  these  minute  drops  coalesce  to  form  rain,  which  falls 
from  the  clouds  to  the  ground,  and  that  they  carry  down 
the  dust  previously  blown  up  by  the  winds  and  so  purify 
the  atmosphere  from  all  sorts  of  small  floating  particles. 
They  also  bring  electric  charges  to  the  earth,  and  this  has 
something  to  do  with  producing  the  atmospheric  electrical 
potential  which  always  exists.  These  ions  are  a  natural 
portion  of  the  atmosphere  itself,  being  continuously  pro- 
duced in  it,  even  when  no  special  cause  seems  to  be  present, 
and  they  have  much  to  do  with  explaining  some  of  the 
strange  characteristics  of  atmospheric  electricity  which 
have  so  long  baffled  all  efforts  to  comprehend.  Investiga- 
tors are  now  paying  the  closest  attention  to  these  ions 
from  every  point  of  view. 

A  Sailor's  Work^ 

Nothing  is  more  common  than  to  hear  people  say — "  Are 
not  sailors  very  idle  at  sea? — ^what  can  they  find  to  do?" 

^  Prom  Two  Years  Before  the  Mast,  by  R.  H.  Dana,  Jr. 


100  EXPOSITION 

This  is  a  very  natural  mistake,  and  being  very  frequently 
made,  it  is  one  which  every  sailor  feels  interested  in  having 
corrected.  In  the  first  place,  then,  the  discipline  of  the 
ship  requires  every  man  to  be  at  work  upon  something 
when  he  is  on  deck,  except  at  night  and  on  Sundays.  Ex- 
cept at  these  times,  you  will  never  see  a  man,  on  board  a 
well-ordered  vessel,  standing  idle  on  deck,  sitting  down,  or 
leaning  over  the  side.  It  is  the  officers'  duty  to  keep  every 
one  at  work,  even  if  there  is  nothing  to  be  done  but  to 
scrape  the  rust  from  the  chain  cables.  In  no  state  prison 
are  the  convicts  more  regularly  set  to  work,  and  more 
closely  watched.  No  conversation  is  allowed  among  the 
crew  at  their  duty,  and  though  they  frequently  do  talk  when 
aloft,  or  when  near  one  another,  yet  they  always  stop  when 
an  officer  is  nigh. 

With  regard  to  the  work  upon  which  the  men  are  put,  it 
is  a  matter  which  probably  would  not  be  understood  by  one 
who  has  not  been  at  sea.  When  I  first  left  port,  and  found 
that  we  were  kept  regularly  employed  for  a  week  or  two,  I 
supposed  that  we  were  getting  the  vessel  into  sea  trim  and 
that  it  would  soon  be  over,  and  we  should  have  nothing  to 
do  but  to  sail  the  ship;  but  I  found  that  it  continued  so 
for  two  years,  and  at  the  end  of  the  two  years  there  was 
as  much  to  be  done  as  ever.  As  has  often  been  said,  a  ship 
is  like  a  lady's  watch,  always  out  of  repair.  When  first 
leaving  port,  studding-sail  gear  is  to  be  rove,  all  the 
running  rigging  to  be  examined,  that  which  is  unfit  for 
use  to  be  got  down,  and  new  rigging  rove  in  its  place :  then 
the  standing  rigging  is  to  be  overhauled,  replaced,  and 
repaired,  in  a  thousand  different  ways;  and  wherever  any 
of  the  numberless  ropes  or  the  yards  are  chafing  or  wearing 
upon  it,  there  "  chafing  gear,"  as  it  is  called,  must  be  put 
on.  This  chafing  gear  consists  of  worming,  parceling, 
roundings,  battens,  and  service  of  all  kinds — both  rope- 
yarns,    spun-yarn,    marline,    and    seizing-stuffs.    Taking 


SPECIMENS  OF  EXPOSlTlC^iT  lOl 

off,  putting  on,  and  mending  the  chafing  gear  alone, 
upon  a  vessel,  would  find  constant  employment  for 
two  or  three  men,  during  working  hours,  for  a  whole 
voyage. 

Why  Flies  Gather  on  the  Screen  Door  ^ 

It  is  a  long  step  toward  keeping  flies  out  of  the 
house  when  one  understands  why  they  want  to  come 
in.  Common  opinion  has  it  that  the  fly  meditates 
profoundly  on  the  conduct  of  life,  knows  what  he 
wants  and  why  he  wants  it,  and  deliberately  joins  the 
assembly  around  the  top  of  the  kitchen  screen  door  to 
wait  for  the  chance  to  dodge  in  when  the  cook  comes 
out. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  fly  is  no  such  rational  thinker. 
He  has  one  supreme  motive  in  life,  and  that  is — to  move 
toward  the  strongest  smell.  He  enters  the  house  because 
there  are  more  smells  inside  than  out,  and,  once  in,  he 
frequents  the  kitchen  because  there  are  more  smells  there 
than  in  the  parlor.  The  fly  does  not  find  its  food  by  sight, 
but  by  odor  only.  In  fact,  the  fly^s  sight  is  extremely  poor; 
for  nature  has  never  solved  the  optical  problem  of  making 
a  small  eye  see  as  clearly  as  a  large  one.  The  customary 
swarm  of  flies  around  the  kitchen  door  means  only  that 
the  kitchen  windows  are  opened  at  the  bottom,  and  since 
the  top  of  the  door  is  the  highest  opening  in  the  room,  that, 
rather  than  one  of  the  windows,  is  carrying  the  out-draft 
and  the  smell  of  yesterday's  soup.  The  moral  is,  adjust  the 
ventilation  so  that  the  out-draft  shall  be  through  a  screened 
window.  No  fly  will  ever  see  a  door  open  and  deliberately 
fly  in. 

iFrom  an  article  by  E.  T.  Brewster  on  *'  The  Fly— the  Diseaso 
of  the  House,"  McClure'8  Magazine,  September,  1909. 


102  EXPOSITION 

The  Law  of  Economy  in  Style  ^ 

Our  inquiry  is  scientific,  not  empirical;  it  therefore  seeks 
the  psychological  basis  for  every  law,  endeavoring  to 
ascertain  what  condition  of  a  reader's  receptivity  deter- 
mines the  law.  Fortunately  for  us,  in  the  case  of  the  first 
and  most  important  law  the  psychological  basis  is  extremely 
simple,  and  may  be  easily  appreciated  by  a  reference  to  its 
analogue  in  Mechanics. 

What  is  the  first  object  of  a  machine?  Effective  work — 
vis  viva.  Every  means  by  which  friction  can  be  reduced, 
and  the  force  thus  economized  be  rendered  available,  neces- 
sarily solicits  the  constructor's  care.  He  seeks  as  far  as 
possible  to  liberate  the  motion  which  is  absorbed  in  the 
working  of  the  machine,  and  to  use  it  as  vis  viva.  He 
knows  that  every  superfluous  detail,  every  retarding  influ- 
ence, is  at  the  cost  of  so  much  power,  and  is  a  mechanical 
defect,  though  it  may  perhaps  be  an  assthetic  beauty  or  a 
practical  convenience.  He  may  retain  it  because  of  the 
beauty,  because  of  the  convenience,  but  he  knows  the  price 
of  effective  power  at  which  it  is  obtained. 

And  thus  it  stands  with  Style.  The  first  object  of  a 
writer  is  effective  expression,  the  power  of  communicating 
distinct  thoughts  and  emotional  suggestions.  He  has  to 
overcome  the  friction  of  ignorance  and  preoccupation.  He 
has  to  arrest  a  wandering  attention,  and  to  clear  away 
the  misconceptions  which  cling  around  verbal  symbols. 
Words  are  not  like  iron  and  wood,  coal  and  water,  invari- 
able in  their  properties,  calculable  in  their  effects.  They 
are  mutable  in  their  powers,  deriving  force  and  subtle 
variations  of  force  from  very  trifling  changes  of  position; 
coloring  and  colored  by  the  words  which  precede  and 
succeed;  significant  or  insignificant  from  the  powers  of 
rhythm  and  cadence.  It  is  the  writer's  art  so  to  arrange 
*  From  G.  H.  Lewes's  Principles  of  Success  in  Literature. 


SPECIMENS  OF  EXPOSITION  103 

words  that  they  shall  suffer  the  least  possible  retardation 
from  the  inevitable  friction  of  the  reader's  mind.  The 
analogy  of  a  machine  is  perfect.  In  both  cases  the  object 
is  to  secure  the  maximum  of  disposable  force,  by  diminish- 
ing the  amount  absorbed  in  the  working.  Obviously,  if 
a  reader  is  engaged  in  extricating  the  meaning  from  a 
sentence  which  ought  to  have  reflected  its  meaning  as  in 
a  mirror,  the  mental  energy  thus  employed  is  abstracted 
from  the  amount  of  force  which  he  has  to  bestow  on  the 
subject;  he  has  mentally  to  form  anew  the  sentence  which 
has  been  clumsily  formed  by  the  writer;  he  wastes,  on 
interpretation  of  the  symbols,  force  which  might  have 
been  concentrated  on  meditation  of  the  propositions.  This 
waste  is  inappreciable  in  writing  of  ordinary  excellence, 
and  on  subjects  not  severely  tasking  to  the  attention;  but 
if  inappreciable,  it  is  always  waste;  and  in  bad  writing, 
especially  on  topics  of  philosophy  and  science,  the  waste 
is  important.  And  it  is  this  which  greatly  narrows  the 
circle  for  serious  works.  Interest  in  the  subjects  treated 
of  may  not  be  wanting;  but  the  abundant  energy  is  want- 
ing which  to  the  fatigue  of  consecutive  thinking  will  add 
the  labor  of  deciphering  the  language.  Many  of  us  are 
but  too  familiar  with  the  fatigue  of  reconstructing  unwieldy 
sentences  in  which  the  clauses  are  not  logically  dependent, 
nor  the  terms  free  from  equivoque;  we  know  what  it  is  to 
have  to  hunt  for  the  meaning  hidden  in  a  maze  of  words; 
and  we  can  understand  the  yawning  indifference  which 
must  soon  settle  upon  every  reader  of  such  writing,  unless 
he  has  some  strong  external  impulse  or  abundant  energy. 

Economy  dictates  that  the  meaning  should  be  presented 
in  a  form  which  claims  the  least  possible  attention  to  itself 
as  form,  unless  when  that  form  is  part  of  the  writer^s  ob- 
ject, and  when  the  simple  thought  is  less  important  than 
the  manner  of  presenting  it.  And  even  when  the  manner  is 
playful  or  impassioned,  the  law  of  Economy  still  presides, 


104  EXPOSITION 

* 

and  insists  on  the  rejection  of  whatever  is  superfluous.  Only 
a  delicate  susceptibility  can  discriminate  a  superfluity  in 
passages  of  humor  or  rhetoric;  but  elsewhere  a  very  ordi- 
nary understanding  can  recognize  the  clauses  and  the  epi- 
thets which  are  out  of  place,  and  in  excess,  retarding  or 
confusing  the  direct  appreciation  of  the  thought.  If  we 
have  written  a  clumsy  or  confused  sentence,  we  shall  often 
find  that  the  removal  of  an  awkward  inversion  liberates  the 
idea,  or  that  the  modification  of  a  cadence  increases  the 
effect.  This  is  sometimes  strikingly  seen  at  the  rehearsal  of 
a  play:  a  passage  which  has  fallen  flat  upon  the  ear  is 
suddenly  brightened  into  effectiveness  by  the  removal  of 
a  superfluous  phrase,  which,  by  its  retarding  influence,  had 
thwarted  the  declamatory  crescendo. 

Young  writers  may  learn  something  of  the  secrets  of 
Economy  by  careful  revision  of  their  own  compositions, 
and  by  careful  dissection  of  passages  selected  both  from 
good  and  bad  writers.  They  have  simply  to  strike  out 
every  word,  every  clause,  and  every  sentence,  the  removal 
of  which  will  not  carry  away  any  of  the  constituent  ele- 
ments of  the  thought.  Having  done  this,  let  them  compare 
the  revised  with  the  unrevised  passages,  and  see  where  the 
excision  has  improved,  and  where  it  has  injured,  the  effect. 
For  Economy,  although  a  primal  law,  is  not  the  only  law 
of  Style.  It  is  subject  to  various  limitations  from  the 
pressure  of  other  laws;  and  thus  the  removal  of  a  trifling 
superfluity  will  not  be  justified  by  a  wise  economy  if  that 
loss  entails  a  dissonance,  or  prevents  a  climax,  or  robs  the 
expression  of  its  ease  and  variety.  Economy  is  rejection 
of  whatever  is  superfluous;  it  is  not  Miserliness.  A  liberal 
expenditure  is  often  the  best  economy,  and  is  always  so 
when  dictated  by  a  generous  impulse,  not  by  a  prodigal 
carelessness  or  ostentatious  vanity.  That  man  would 
greatly  err  who  tried  to  make  his  style  effective  by  strip- 
ping it   of   all   redundancy  and   ornament,   presenting  it 


SPECIMENS  OF  EXPOSITION  105 

naked  before  the  indifferent  public.  Perhaps  the  very 
redundancy  which  he  lops  away  might  have  aided  the 
reader  to  see  the  thought  more  clearly,  because  it  would 
have  kept  the  thought  a  little  longer  before  his  mind,  and 
thus  prevented  him  from  hurrying  on  to  the  next  while 
this  one  was  still  imperfectly  conceived. 

As  a  general  rule,  redundancy  is  injurious;  and  the 
reason  of  the  rule  will  enable  us  to  discriminate  when 
redundancy  is  injurious  and  when  beneficial.  It  is  injuri- 
ous when  it  hampers  the  rapid  movement  of  the  reader^s 
mind,  diverting  his  attention  to  some  collateral  detail.  But 
it  is  beneficial  when  its  retarding  influence  is  such  as  only 
to  detain  the  mind  longer  on  the  thought,  and  thus  to 
secure  the  fuller  effect  of  the  thought.  For  rapid  reading 
is  often  imperfect  reading.  The  mind  is  satisfied  with  a 
glimpse  of  that  which  it  ought  to  have  steadily  contem- 
plated; and  any  artifice  by  which  the  thought  can  be  kept 
long  enough  before  the  mind,  may  indeed  be  a  redundancy 
as  regards  the  meaning,  but  is  an  economy  of  power.  Thus 
we  see  that  the  phrase  or  the  clause  which  we  might  be 
tempted  to  lop  away  because  it  threw  no  light  upon  the 
proposition,  would  be  retained  by  a  skilful  writer  because 
it  added  power.  You  may  know  the  character  of  a  redun- 
dancy by  this  one  test:  does  it  divert  the  attention,  or 
simply  retard  it?  The  former  is  always  a  loss  of  power; 
the  latter  is  sometimes  a  gain  of  power.  The  art  of  the 
writer  consists  in  rejecting  all  redundancies  that  do  not 
conduce  to  clearness.  The  shortest  sentences  are  not  nec- 
essarily the  clearest.  Concision  gives  energy,  but  it  also 
adds  restraint.  The  labor  of  expanding  a  terse  sentence  to 
its  full  meaning  is  often  greater  than  the  labor  of  picking 
out  the  meaning  from  a  diffuse  and  loitering  passage.  Taci- 
tus is  more  tiresome  than  Cicero. 

There  are  occasions  when  the  simplest  and  fewest  words 
surpass  in  effect  all  the  wealth  of  rhetorical  amplification. 


106  EXPOSITION 

An  example  may  be  seen  in  the  passage  which  has  been  a 
favorite  illustration  from  the  days  of  Longinus  to  our  own. 
"  God  said :  Let  there  be  light !  and  there  was  light."  This 
is  a  conception  of  power  so  calm  and  simple  that  it  needs 
only  to  be  presented  in  the  fewest  and  the  plainest  words, 
and  would  be  confused  or  weakened  by  any  suggestion  of 
accessories.  Let  us  amplify  the  expression  in  the  redundant 
style  of  miscalled  eloquent  writers :  "  God,  in  the  magnificent 
fullness  of  creative  energy,  exclaimed:  Let  there  be  light! 
and  lo!  the  agitating  fiat  immediately  went  forth,  and  thus 
in  one  indivisible  moment  the  whole  universe  was  illumined." 
We  have  here  a  sentence  which  I  am  certain  many  a  writer 
would,  in  secret,  prefer  to  the  masterly  plainness  of  Genesis. 
It  is  not  a  sentence  which  would  have  captivated  critics. 

Although  this  sentence  from  Genesis  is  sublime  in  its 
simplicity,  we  are  not  to  conclude  that  simple  sentences  are 
uniformly  the  best,  or  that  a  style  composed  of  propositions 
briefly  expressed  would  obey  a  wise  Economy.  The  reader's 
pleasure  must  not  be  forgotten;  and  he  cannot  be  pleased 
by  a  style  which  always  leaps  and  never  flows.  A  harsh, 
abrupt,  and  dislocated  manner  irritates  and  perplexes  him 
by  its  sudden  jerks.  It  is  easier  to  write  short  sentences 
than  to  read  them.  An  easy,  fluent,  and  harmonious  phrase 
steals  unobtrusively  upon  the  mind,  and  allows  the  thought 
to  expand  quietly  like  an  opening  flower.  But  the  very 
suasiveness  of  harmonious  writing  needs  to  be  varied  lest 
it  become  a  drowsy  monotony;  and  the  sharp,  short  sen- 
tences which  are  intolerable  when  abundant,  when  used 
sparingly  act  like  a  trumpet-call  to  the  drooping  attention. 

Goldsmith  ^ 

The  principal  name  of  the  period  we  are  now  come  to  is 
that  of  Goldsmith,  than  which  few  names  stand  higher  or 

I  From  Hazlitt's  Lectures  on  the  English  Foots, 


SPECIMENS  OF  EXPOSITION  107 

fairer  in  the  annals  of  modern  literature.  One  should  have 
his  own  pen  to  describe  him  as  he  ought  to  be  described — 
amiable,  various,  and  bland,  with  careless  inimitable  grace 
touching  on  every  kind  of  excellence — ^with  manners  un- 
studied, but  a  gentle  heart — performing  miracles  of  skill 
from  pure  happiness  of  nature,  and  whose  greatest  fault 
was  ignorance  of  his  own  worth.  As  a  poet,  he  is  the  most 
flowing  and  elegant  of  our  versifiers  since  Pope,  with  traits 
of  artless  nature  which  Pope  had  not,  and  with  a  peculiar 
felicity  in  his  turns  upon  words,  which  he  constantly  re- 
peated with  delightful  effect:  such  as — 

"  His  lot,  though  small, 
He  sees  that  little  lot,  the  lot  of  all." 

"  And  turned  and  lookM,  and  turned  to  look  again." 

As  a  novelist,  his  Vicar  of  Wakefield  has  charmed  all 
Europe.  What  reader  is  there  in  the  civilized  world,  who 
is  not  the  better  for  the  story  of  the  washes  which  the 
worthy  Dr.  Primrose  demolished  so  deliberately  with  the 
poker — for  the  knowledge  of  the  guinea  which  the  Miss 
Primroses  kept  unchanged  in  their  pockets — the  adventure 
of  the  picture  of  the  Vicar^s  family,  which  could  not  be 
got  into  the  house — and  that  of  the  Flamborough  family, 
all  painted  with  oranges  in  their  hands — or  for  the  story 
of  the  case  of  shagreen  spectacles  and  the  cosmogony? 

As  a  comic  writer,  his  Tony  Lumpkin  draws  forth  new 
powers  from  Mr.  Liston's  face.  That  alone  is  praise  enough 
for  it.  Poor  Goldsmith!  how  happy  he  has  made  others! 
how  unhappy  he  was  in  himself !  He  never  had  the  pleasure 
of  reading  his  own  works !  He  had  only  the  satisfaction  of 
good-naturedly  relieving  the  necessities  of  others,  and  the 
consolation  of  being  harassed  to  death  with  his  own.  He 
is  the  most  amusing  and  interesting  person,  in  one  of  the 


108  EXPOSITION 

most  amusing  and  interesting  books  in  the  world,  BoswelPs 
Life  of  Johnson.  His  peach-colored  coat  shall  always  bloom 
in  Boswell's  writings,  and  his  fame  survive  in  his  own !  His 
genius  was  a  mixture  of  originality  and  imitation :  he  could 
do  nothing  without  some  model  before  him,  and  he  could 
copy  nothing  that  he  did  not  adorn  with  the  graces  of  his 
own  mind.  Almost  all  the  latter  part  of  the  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field, and  a  great  deal  of  the  former,  is  taken  from  Joseph 
Andrews;  but  the  circumstances  I  have  mentioned  above 
are  not. 

The  finest  things  he  has  left  behind  him  in  verse  are  his 
character  of  a  country  schoolmaster,  and  that  prophetic  de- 
scription of  Burke  in  the  Retaliation.  His  moral  essays 
in  the  Citizen  of  the  World  are  as  agreeably  chit-chat  as  can 
be  conveyed  in  the  form  of  didactic  discourses. 

Potash  &  Perlmutter  ^ 

A  many-nationed  country  like  America  needs  writers  who 
can  interpret  one  race  to  another,  needs  especially  writers 
of  fiction  who  can  pierce  through  the  crust  of  alien  manners 
and  speech  and  show  the  inherent  humaneness.  Only  thus 
shall  come  a  richer  understanding,  a  quicker  socialization. 
Hence,  in  his  light-hearted  Potash  &  Perlmutter  stories, 
Montague  Glass  is  doing  a  serious  work.  For  he  has  seized 
upon  a  section  of  life  as  yet  not  articulated  through  art, 
a  section  on  the  surface  sordid  and  crass,  and  has  so  set 
it  forth  that  it  swarms  upon  us  with  interest  and  reality. 
His  method  is  photographic  and  phonographic;  that  is,  we 
get  the  life  just  as  it  stirs  daily  in  the  cloak  and  suit 
section  of  New  York,  and  we  get  it  through  its  own  lan- 
guage.   However,  Mr.  Glass  is  an  artist;  he  is  not  content 

^By  Montague  Glass.  Philadelphia:  Henry  Altemus  Com- 
pany.— Reviewed  by  James  Oppenheim  in  the  Bookman,  Au- 
gust, 1910. 


SPECIMENS  OF  EXPOSITION  109 

with  mere  literalness;  his  realism  is  not  mere  realism; 
but  there  is  all  through  his  work  an  undercurrent 
of  genial  warmth,  of  kindly  humor,  which  rises  here 
and  there  in  the  creation  of  real  characters.  Potash, 
Perlmutter,  Henry  D.  Feldman,  Sammet  Brothers,  and  a 
host  of  others  live  as  really  as  Pickwick,  Becky  Sharp  or 
Falstaff.  We  talk  of  them  as  if  they  were  living  people. 
They  come  to  us  dripping  with  faults;  they  shock  us  by 
their  manners  and  their  meannesses,  by  their  money-lust 
and  sharp  practice;  but  they  grow  on  us  until  we  accept 
them  as  relatives — that  is,  we  see  their  faults  merged  into 
a  universal  humaneness,  a  humaneness  that  we  share  our- 
selves. In  fact,  Mr.  Glass  has  interpreted  a  certain  type 
of  the  Jew,  and  done  it  successfully. 

Needless  to  say,  these  stories  have  large  limitations.  The 
area  of  life  covered  is  small.  Mr.  Glass  has  only  touched 
a  slight  fringe  of  the  race  that  has  produced  the  Prophets, 
the  founder  of  Christianity,  and  such  men  as  Spinoza, 
Marx,  Mendelssohn,  and  Heinrich  Heine.  His  is  not  the 
book  of  the  Jew;  but  a  book  about  certain  Jews.  Nor  is 
this  narrowness  made  up  by  depth.  When  Shakespeare 
created  a  group  of  Scotchmen,  as  in  Macbeth,  he  did  more 
than  make  them  human :  he  connected  them  up  with  Nature ; 
he  showed  the  divine  spaciousness  of  the  human  soul;  he 
gave  through  them  a  sense  of  the  vastness,  the  tremendous- 
ness  of  life.    He  gave  depth,  as  Dickens  has  given  breadth. 

This  may  seem  a  curious  criticism  of  stories  that  were 
probably  primarily  intended  to  be  entertaining  and  farcical ; 
but  a  writer  who  can  create  living  characters  should  not  be 
contented  with  so  limited  an  area;  and  it  is  to  be  hoped 
that  this  book  is  Mr.  Glass's  Pickwick  Papers  and  that  he 
is  going  on  to  write  a  David  Copperfield — that  is,  a  book 
rich  with  the  diversities  of  life,  crowded  with  a  varied  peo- 
ple, and  set  on  a  broad  stage. 

In  the  meantime  we  may  thoroughly  enjoy  Potash  <&  Perl- 


110  EXPOSITION 

mutter.  Its  humor  is  unique — not  the  humor  of  a  wit,  like 
Mr.  Dooley — but  the  humor  of  characters  who  are  deadly 
serious  and  do  not  know  how  funny  they  are.  While  the 
reader  is  laughing,  Abe  Potash  and  Morris  Perlmutter  are 
groaning  and  turning  pale.  Especially  precious  to  any 
one  acquainted  with  German  and  Yiddish  idioms  are  the 
quaint  foreign  phrases  that  sprinkle  the  racy  speech 
throughout. 

In  a  few  words,  then,  this  book  by  Mr.  Glass  is  a  real 
transcription  of  life,  it  is  alive  with  real  people,  it  is 
charged  with  human  warmth,  it  is  full  of  laughable  fun 
and  farce,  and  it  is  significant  in  that  it  interprets  one 
type  of  American,  and  in  that  it  promises  larger  work. 
The  man  who  wrote  this  book  has  it  in  him  to  depict  life 
on  a  larger  scale. 


AEGUMENTATION 

1.  NATURE  AND  PURPOSE  OP   ARGUMENTATIVE   WRITING 

Argumentation  may  be  defined,  in  general,  as  that 
kind  of  discourse  wherein  the  aim  is  to  influence  be- 
lief or  opinion.  In  argumentation  the  writer  or 
speaker  assumes  that  there  is  difference  of  opinion 
between  himself  and  the  person  addressed  with  re- 
gard to  the  matter  discussed,  and  his  object  is  to 
remove  the  difference  by  bringing  that  person  over 
to  his  way  of  thinking.  Argumentation  always  pre- 
supposes that  there  are  two  sides  to  the  question. 
Where  no  difference  of  opinion  exists,  there  is  no 
ground  for  argument. 

It  is  this  presupposition  that  there  may  be  difference 
of  opinion  on  the  subject  discussed  that  distinguishes, 
in  the  main,  argumentation  from  exposition.  In  ex- 
position, the  presumption  is  that  the  reader  is  at  one 
with  the  writer  in  desiring  simply  a  clear  understand- 
ing of  the  subject.  When  he  understands  fully  and 
clearly  what  the  writer  is  trying  to  make  him  under- 
stand, all  has  been  done  that  needs  to  be  done. 
Whether  he  believes  it  to  be  true  or  false  is  immaterial ; 
it  is  sufficient  if  he  simply  understands  it.  In  argu- 
mentation, however,  it  is  different.     Here  it  is  the 

111 


112  ARGUMENTATION 

reader's  beliefs  or  opinions  with  regard  to  a  subject, 
not  his  understanding  of  it  merely,  that  the  writer  is 
concerned  with  chiefly.  Explanation  may,  of  course, 
play  an  important  part  in  an  argumentative  discourse ; 
but  it  is  always  a  part  subservient  to  the  main  pur- 
pose of  the  discourse,  which  is  the  influencing  of  the 
belief  or  opinions  of  the  reader. 

It  is  not  always  easy,  to  be  sure,  to  distinguish 
between  what  is  meant  as  explanation  simply  and 
what  is  intended  to  influence  belief.  The  line  between 
exposition  and  argumentation,  as  has  been  said,  is 
not,  and  can  not  be,  very  sharply  drawn.  Many  books 
and  articles  which  are  obviously  expository  in  their 
main  intention  have  yet  an  underlying  argumentative 
purpose.  The  main  purpose  of  Darwin's  Origin  of 
Species,  for  example,  may  be  regarded  as  expository, 
but  note  the  argumentative  tone  of  the  following  pas- 


The  complex  and  little  known  laws  governing  the  pro- 
duction of  varieties  are  the  same,  as  far  as  we  can  judge, 
with  the  laws  which  have  governed  the  production  of  dis- 
tinct species.  In  both  cases  physical  conditions  seem  to 
have  produced  some  direct  and  definite  effect,  but  how  much 
we  cannot  say.  Thus,  when  varieties  enter  any  new  station, 
they  occasionally  assume  some  of  the  characters  proper  to 
the  species  of  that  station.  With  both  varieties  and  species, 
use  and  disuse  seem  to  have  produced  a  considerable  effect; 
for  it  is  impossible  to  resist  this  conclusion  when  we  look, 
for  instance,  at  the  logger-headed  duck,  which  has  wings 
incapable  of  flight,  in  nearly  the  same  condition  as  in 
the  domestic  duck;  or  when  we  look  at  the  burrowing  tucu- 
tucu,  which  is  occasionally  blind,  and  then  at  certain  moles. 


CONVICTION  AND  PERSUASION  113 

which  are  habitually  blind  and  have  their  eyes  covered  with 
skin  J  or  when  we  look  at  the  blind  animals  inhabiting  the 
dark  caves  of  America  and  Europe.  With  varieties  and 
species,  correlated  variation  seems  to  have  played  an  im- 
portant part,  so  that  when  one  part  has  been  modified 
other  parts  have  been  necessarily  modified.  With  both 
varieties  and  species,  reversion  to  long-lost  characters  occa- 
sionally occur.  How  inexplicable  on  the  theory  of  creation 
is  the  occasional  appearance  of  stripes  on  the  shoulders 
and  legs  of  the  several  species  of  the  horse-genus  and  of 
their  hybrids.  How  simply  is  this  fact  explained  if  we 
believe  that  these  species  are  all  descended  from  a  striped 
progenitor,  in  the  same  manner  as  the  several  domestic 
breeds  of  the  pigeons  are  descended  from  the  blue  and 
barred  rock  pigeon ! 

The  purpose  of  the  writer  here  is  manifestly  not 
merely  to  explain  his  theory,  but  to  show  how  much 
more  satisfactory  it  is  as  an  explanation  of  the  facts 
in  the  case  than  the  commonly  accepted  theory  of 
special  creation.  He  not  only  wishes  his  reader  to 
understand  it,  but  to  accept  it  as  true. 

2.    CONVICTION   AND   PERSUASION 

One  of  the  first  things  the  student  should  note  with 
regard  to  argumentation  is  that  it  has  two  phases, — 
one  which  concerns  the  reason  or  understanding 
mainly;  and  the  other,  the  will.  When  the  effort  to 
win  assent  takes  the  form  of  an  appeal  to  the  under- 
standing, it  is  called  reasoning,  or  conviction  if  the 
appeal  has  been  successful ;  when,  however,  it  consists 
mainly  of  an  appeal  to  the  will — ^which  is  usually 
reached  through  the  passions  or  feelings — it  is  com- 


114  ARGUMENTATION 

monly  called  persuasion.  There  is  a  difference  be- 
tween being  convinced  and  being  persuaded.  Convic- 
tion is  content  with  simple  intellectual  assent;  per- 
suasion, on  the  contrary,  seeks,  wherever  possible,  to 
transform  belief  into  action.  A  man  convinced 
against  his  will  is,  according  to  the  adage,  of  the  same 
opinion  still.  To  induce  him  to  act  in  conformity 
with  his  opinion  is  the  task  of  persuasion. 

At  bottom,  as  has  been  intimated  already,  argumen- 
tation is  a  matter  for  the  understanding  rather  than 
the  feelings.  But  the  feelings  play  a  very  important 
part  in  it  for  all  that.  Man  is  not  wholly  a  creature 
of  reason,  though  in  his  arguing  he  sometimes  makes 
the  mistake  of  supposing  that  he  is.  Temperament, 
training,  inherited  tendencies,  special  interest,  and 
so  on,  all  go  to  give  the  mind  a  bent;  and  this  bent 
is  sometimes  so  decided  that  it  is  difficult  for  one  to 
see  things  quite  as  others  see  them.  Still,  it  is  at  the 
same  time  true  that,  though  we  may  be  much  less 
under  the  sway  of  pure  reason  than  we  sometimes 
suppose,  we  always  expect  to  have  our  understanding 
convinced  before  we  change  our  opinions.  Our  reason 
must  be  satisfied  before  we  yield  assent.  It  is  only 
where  our  interests  or  feelings  are  unconcerned,  how- 
ever, that  we  are  likely  to  be  induced  to  yield  that 
assent  by  the  methods  used  in  pure  reasoning.  Hence 
it  is  in  the  field  of  pure  science  only,  where  personal 
interests,  passions,  or  prejudices  have  no  place,  that  we 
may  expect  to  find  pure  reasoning.  The  demonstra- 
tion of  a  proposition  in  geometry  is  an  example  of 
reasoning  pure  and  simple  without  any  admixture 
of  persuasion.    All  that  is  required  of  us  here  is  in- 


CONVICTION  AND  PERSUASION  U5 

tellectual  assent,  and  that  we  must  yield  if  the  reason- 
ing is  sound  and  we  are  in  the  possession  of  our 
senses.  Argumentation  of  this  kind,  however,  is  sel- 
dom or  never  to  be  met  with  outside  the  realms  of 
pure  science.  Whenever  we  deal  with  questions  which 
bear  upon  the  interests  or  activities  of  life,  we  put 
more  or  less  of  feeling  into  our  discourse.  There  is, 
virtually,  no  such  thing  as  pure  reasoning  in  litera- 
ture; persuasion  enters,  to  some  degree  at  least,  into 
practically  all  argumentative  discourses  of  the  ordi- 
nary kind, — the  kind,  that  is,  with  which  we  are  here 
concerned.  On  the  other  hand,  pure  persuasion  is  as 
rare  as  pure  reasoning.  Persuasion  must  have  a  sub- 
stratum of  reasoning  before  it  can  be  widely  effective. 
We  may  move  for  the  moment  by  an  appeal  to  the 
passions  or  prejudices  of  our  hearers  or  readers,  but 
the  effect  will  not  be  very  lasting  if  there  is  no  solid 
logical  basis  to  our  argument. 

Practically,  then,  all  argumentative  discourses 
which  deal  with  questions  of  personal,  political,  or 
social  interest  are  a  mixture  of  reasoning  and  per- 
suasion. They  accomplish  their  end  partly  by  con- 
viction and  partly  by  persuasion,  aiming  always  at  a 
happy  combination  of  the  two  methods.  The  two 
methods,  indeed,  are  each,  as  Professor  Baker  puts 
it,  '*  the  complement  of  the  other,  and  ideal  argumen- 
tation would  combine  perfection  of  reasoning,  com- 
plete convincingness,  with  perfection  of  persuasive 
power — excitement  of  just  the  right  emotions  to  just 
the  right  extent  to  obtain  the  ends  desired  by  the 
(speaker  or  writer. ' '  ^ 

*  Principles  of  Argumentation,  p.  7, 


116  ARGUMENTATION 

For  the  most  part,  the  arts  of  persuasion  are  be- 
yond the  power  of  the  rhetorician  to  teach.  There 
is,  as  yet,  neither  a  science  nor  an  art  of  persuasion. 
Such  persuasive  arts  and  devices  as  are  recognized 
and  practised  depend  for  their  efficacy  mostly  upon 
the  personal  gifts  of  those  who  use  them.  These  gifts 
will,  in  the  case  of  one  speaker,  render  effective  what 
would,  in  the  case  of  another,  be  a  totally  ineffective 
argument.  In  written  argumentation,  to  be  sure,  the 
personal  magnetism  which  a  speaker  may  exert  does 
not  count;  nevertheless,  there  may  still  be  an  in- 
dividuality in  a  writer's  style  whereby  what  he  says 
may  win  its  way  to  the  hearts  of  his  readers,  when 
the  same  arguments,  differently  expressed,  would  fall 
flat. 

In  general,  the  great  thing  in  persuasion  is  the 
winning  of  the  sympathy  of  the  reader.  The  reader 
must  be  made  to  feel  with  the  writer,  to  be  willing 
not  only  to  hear  what  he  has  to  say,  but  to  follow  him 
in  a  spirit  of  open-mindedness,  or  readiness  to  be 
persuaded.  This  means  that  the  writer  himself  must 
be  fair-minded,  earnest,  and  sincere.  Nothing  will 
more  quickly  breed  distrust  in  the  reader,  and  hence 
render  the  task  of  winning  assent  from  him  difficult, 
if  not  impossible,  than  an  appearance  of  unfairness 
or  insincerity  on  the  part  of  the  writer.  The  reader 
cannot  be  made  to  believe  what  the  writer  himself 
does  not  believe.  Nor  can  he  be  made  to  feel  much 
enthusiasm  about  a  subject  if  the  writer  displays  no 
such  feeling  on  his  own  part.  The  reader,  in  short, 
takes  his  cue  from  the  writer.  The  argumentative 
writer  who  would  succeed,  therefore,  should  first  try 


THE  PROPOSITION  117 

to  get  his  readers  into  as  favorable  an  attitude  toward 
him  as  possible,  and  then  throw  himself  into  his  sub- 
ject with  as  much  vigor  as  he  can.  The  rest  will 
depend  upon  the  cogency  of  his  reasoning. 

In  studying  the  methods  of  convincing  the  under- 
standing, we  are  on  much  firmer  ground  than  when 
dealing  with  persuasion.  Logic,  which  is  the  science 
that  treats  of  the  nature  and  laws  of  thought,  has 
investigated  the  process  of  thinking  and  has  laid 
down  the  general  conditions  under  which  reasoning 
must  proceed  in  order  to  be  correct.  We  can  here 
call  logic  to  our  aid,  whereas  in  persuasion  we  have 
no  such  guide  to  fall  back  upon. 

3.  THE  PROPOSITION 

Every  argumentation  implies  a  proposition.  In 
arguing,  we  affirm  or  deny  that  something  is  true 
and  then  proceed  to  give  reasons  why  it  should  or 
should  not  be  regarded  as  true.  In  other  words,  we 
lay  down  a  **  proposition  '^  and  then  **  prove  "  it  by 
adducing  arguments  in  support  of  it.  We  cannot 
*  *  argue  a  term  ' ' ;  we  must  have  an  assertion  with  re- 
gard to  it  before  we  can  bring  it  within  the  scope 
of  argumentation. 

The  point  is  well  illustrated  by  the  comment  which 
Newman  makes  upon  the  composition  of  a  certain 
student  whose  father  had  submitted  it  to  him  for 
criticism : 

The  subject  is  "Fortes  fortuna  adjuvat";  now  this  is 
a  proposition;  it  states  a  certain  general  principle,  and 
this  is  just  what  an  ordinary  boy  would  be  sure  to  miss, 


118  ARGUMENTATION 

and  Robert  does  miss  it.  He  goes  off  at  once  on  the  word 
"  f ortuna."  "  Fortuna  "  was  not  his  subject ;  the  thesis 
was  intended  to  guide  him  for  his  own  good;  he  refuses  to 
be  put  into  leading  strings;  he  breaks  loose,  and  runs  off 
in  his  own  fashion  on  the  broad  field  and  in  wild  chase  of 
"  foiiuna,"  instead  of  closing  with  a  subject,  which,  as 
being  definite,  would  have  supported  him. 

It  would  have  been  very  cruel  to  have  told  a  boy  to 
write  on  "  fortuna  " ;  it  would  have  been  like  asking  him  his 
opinion  of  things  in  general.  Fortune  is  good,  bad,  ca- 
pricious, unexpected,  ten  thousand  things  all  at  once  .  .  . 
and  one  of  them  as  much  as  the  other.  Ten  thousand  things 
may  be  said  of  it;  give  me  one  of  them,  and  I  will  write 
upon  it;  I  cannot  write  on  more  than  one.^ 

**  Fortuna  ''  is  a  term ;  ^'  fortune  favors  the  brave,'* 
is  a  proposition.  The  first  may  be  made  the  subject 
of  an  exposition;  the  second,  only,  can  be  argued. 
It  should  be  noted  that  a  term  is  not  necessarily  a 
single  word.  **  A  logical  term  may  consist  of  any 
number  of  nouns,  substantive  or  objective,  with  the 
articles,  prepositions,  and  conjunctions  required  to 
join  them  together;  still  it  is  only  a  term  if  it  points 
out,  or  makes  us  think  of  a  single  object  or  collection, 
or  class  of  objects.*' ^  A  term  may  thus  be  often  of 
considerable  length,  as  for  example  the  following: 
"  The  Bearing  of  the  Monroe  Doctrine  upon  the 
Venezuela  Incident  and  its  Influence  upon  the  Re- 
lations between  England  and  the  United  States.'* 

As  arguing  implies  difference  of  opinion,  the  propo- 
sition should  not,  of  course,  be  the  statement  of  an 

*  From  The  Idea  of  a  Umversity. 
'  Jevons,  Primer  of  Logic,  p.  12. 


DEFINING  THE  ISSUES  119 

obvious  or  universally  admitted  truth.  In  framing 
the  proposition,  therefore,  care  should  be  taken  to 
see  that  it  is  one  upon  which  there  may  be  real  diver- 
gence of  opinion.  The  student  should  note  that  a 
question-begging  epithet  introduced  into  the  proposi- 
tion, as  sometimes  happens  in  debates,  will,  if  accepted, 
often  remove  all  ground  for  argument.  For  instance, 
on  the  proposition,  **  The  brutal  game  of  football 
should  be  suppressed, ' '  there  can  scarcely  be  two 
opinions.  If  the  game  is  brutal,  it  should  of  course 
be  suppressed.  The  brutality  of  the  game,  however, 
may  be  questioned.  In  that  case,  the  debatable  propo- 
sition would  be  simply,  **  Football  is  a  brutal  game." 

4.   DEFINING  THE  ISSUES 

Every  argumentative  composition  must,  as  we  have 
seen,  have  a  proposition,  and  that  proposition  must 
be  one  as  to  the  truth  of  which  there  may  legitimately 
be  some  doubt.  Except  in  debate,  which  is  a  special 
kind  of  argumentation,  it  is  not  necessary  that  the 
proposition  be  formulated  in  precise  terms.  But  if 
it  is  not  so  formulated,  it  should  at  least  be  clearly 
implied.  The  person  addressed  must  be  able  to 
gather  what  it  is  that  he  is  expected  to  give  his 
assent  to,  otherwise  there  will  be  small  chance  of  pro- 
ducing anything  like  conviction  in  his  mind. 

It  is  usual  in  argumentative  compositions  to  devote 
some  space  at  the  beginning  to  such  preliminary  ex- 
planations as  may  be  felt  to  be  necessary  or  desirable. 
In  this  introduction  the  precise  meaning  of  the  propo- 
sition may  be  made  clear,  or,  if  there  is  not  likely  to 


120  ARGUMENTATION 

be  doubt  as  to  that,  the  special  points  which  must 
be  proved  before  the  proposition  can  be  established 
may  be  indicated.  Ordinarily,  misapprehension  as  to 
the  meaning  of  a  proposition  will  be  the  result  of  some 
ambiguity  lurking  in  the  meaning  of  the  terms  used. 
This  of  course  should  be  guarded  against;  and  the 
best  possible  way  of  guarding  against  it  is  to  define 
carefully  all  terms  about  which  there  is  the  least 
likelihood  of  there  being  any  misunderstanding. 

The  importance  of  this  preliminary  explanation  is 
obvious.  In  argumentation  there  must  always  be  a 
certain  common  ground  upon  which  both  parties  may 
meet  in  agreement,  and  from  which  they  may  pro- 
ceed to  the  point  in  dispute.  The  larger  the  area 
of  this  common  ground,  the  less,  naturally,  will  be 
the  distance  to  travel  over  debatable  ground.  Hence 
a  little  explanation  will  often  save  a  great  deal  of 
argument,  and  in  many  cases  it  may  render  argument 
almost,  if  not  wholly,  superfluous. 

The  necessity  of  coming  to  an  agreement  as  to  the 
meaning  of  terms  used  in  controversy  is  well  illus- 
trated in  the  following  passage  from  Matthew 
Arnold's  essay  on  Literature  and  Science,  in  which 
he  defends  himself  against  Huxley's  attack  upon  his 
theory  of  culture: 

Some  of  you  may  possibly  remember  a  phrase  of  mine 
which  has  been  the  object  of  a  good  deal  of  comment;  an 
observation  to  the  effect  that  in  our  culture,  the  aim  being 
to  know  ourselves  and  the  world,  we  have,  as  the  means 
to  this  end,  to  know  the  best  which  has  been  thought  and 
said  in  this  world.  A  man  of  science,  who  is  also  an  ex- 
cellent writer  and  the  very  prince  of  debaters,  Professor 


DEFINING  THE  ISSUES  121 

Huxley,  in  a  discourse  at  the  opening  of  Sir  Josiah  Ma- 
son's College  at  Birmingham,  laying  hold  of  this  phrase, 
expanded  it  by  quoting  some  more  words  of  mine,  which 
are  these :  "  The  civilized  world  is  to  be  regarded  as  now 
being,  for  intellectual  purposes,  one  great  confederation, 
bound  to  a  joint  action  and  working  to  a  common  result; 
and  whose  members  have  for  their  proper  outfit  a  knowledge 
of  Greek,  Roman,  and  Eastern  antiquity,  and  of  one  an- 
other. Special  local  and  temporary  advantages  being  put 
out  of  account,  that  modem  nation  will  in  the  intellectual 
and  spiritual  sphere  make  most  progress  which  most 
thoroughly  carries  out  this  program." 

Now  on  my  phrase,  thus  enlarged.  Professor  Huxley  re- 
marks that  when  I  speak  of  the  above-mentioned  knowl- 
edge as  enabling  us  to  know  ourselves  and  the  world,  I 
assert  literature  to  contain  the  materials  which  suffice  for 
thus  making  us  know  ourselves  and  the  world.  But  it  is 
not  by  any  means  clear,  says  he,  that  after  having  learned 
all  which  ancient  and  modern  literatures  have  to  tell  us, 
we  have  laid  a  sufficiently  broad  and  deep  foundation  for 
that  criticism  of  life,  that  knowledge  of  ourselves  and  the 
world,  which  constitutes  culture.  On  the  contrary.  Pro- 
fessor Huxley  declares  that  he  finds  himself  "wholly  un- 
able to  admit  that  either  nations  or  individuals  will  really 
advance,  if  their  outfit  draws  nothing  from  the  stores  of 
physical  science.  An  army  without  weapons  of  precision, 
and  with  no  particular  base  of  operations  might  more 
hopefully  enter  upon  a  campaign  on  the  Rhine,  than  a 
man,  devoid  of  knowledge  of  what  physical  science  has 
done  in  the  last  century,  upon  a  criticism  of  life." 

This  shows  how  needful  it  is  for  those  who  are  to  dis- 
cuss any  matter  together,  to  have  a  common  understanding 
as  to  the  sense  of  the  terms  they  employ, — how  needful, 
and  how  difficult.  What  Professor  Huxley  says,  implies 
just  the  reproach  which  is  so  often  brought  against  the 


122  ARGUMENTATION 

study  of  helles  lettres,  as  they  are  called:  that  the  study 
is  an  elegant  one,  but  slight  and  ineffectual;  a  smattering 
of  Grreek  and  Latin  and  other  ornamental  things,  of  little 
use  for  any  one  whose  object  is  to  get  at  truth,  and  to  be 
a  practical  man.  So,  too,  M.  Renan  talks  of  the  "  super- 
ficial humanism"  of  a  school  course  which  treats  us  as  if 
we  were  all  going  to  be  poets,  writers,  preachers,  orators, 
and  he  opposes  this  humanism  to  positive  science,  or  the 
critical  search  after  truth.  And  there  is  always  a  tendency 
in  those  who  are  remonstrating  against  the  predominance 
of  letters  in  education,  to  understand  by  letters  helles  lettres, 
and  by  helles  lettres  a  superficial  humanism,  the  opposite 
of  science  or  true  knowledge. 

But  when  we  talk  of  knowing  Greek  and  Roman  antiquity, 
for  instance,  which  is  the  knowledge  people  have  called  the 
humanities,  I  for  my  part  mean  a  knowledge  which  is 
something  more  than  a  superficial  humanism,  mainly  deco- 
rative. "I  call  all  teaching  scientific,"  says  Wolf,  the 
critic  of  Homer,  "which  is  systematically  laid  out  and 
followed  up  to  its  original  sources.  For  example :  a  knowl- 
edge of  classical  antiquity  is  scientific  when  the  remains 
of  classical  antiquity  are  correctly  studied  in  the  original 
languages."  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Wolf  is  perfectly 
right;  that  all  learning  is  scientific  which  is  systematically 
laid  out  and  followed  up  to  its  original  sources,  and  that  a 
genuine  humanism  is  scientific. 

When  I  speak  of  knowing  Greek  and  Roman  antiquity, 
therefore,  as  a  help  to  knowing  ourselves  and  the  world, 
I  mean  more  than  a  knowledge  of  so  much  vocabulary,  so 
much  grammar,  so  many  portions  of  authors  in  the  Greek 
and  Latin  languages;  I  mean  knowing  the  Greeks  and 
Romans,  and  their  life  and  genius,  and  what  they  were  and 
did  in  the  world;  what  we  get  from  them,  and  what  is  its 
value.  That,  at  least,  is  the  ideal ;  and  when  we  talk  of 
endeavoring  to  know  Greek  and  Roman  antiquity,  as  a 


DEFINING  THE  ISSUES  123 

help  to  knowing  ourselves  and  the  world,  we  mean  en- 
deavoring so  to  know  them  as  to  satisfy  this  ideal,  how- 
ever much  we  may  still  fall  short  of  it. 

The  same  also  as  to  knowing  our  own  and  other  modern 
nations,  with  the  like  aim  of  getting  to  understand  ourselves 
and  the  world.  To  know  the  best  that  has  been  thought 
and  said  by  the  modern  nations,  is  to  know,  says  Professor 
Huxley,  "  only  what  modern  literatures  have  to  tell  us ;  it 
is  the  criticism  of  life  contained  in  modern  liteiature." 
And  yet  "  the  distinctive  character  of  our  times,"  he  urges, 
*Mies  in  the  vast  and  constantly  increasing  part  which  is 
played  by  natural  knowledge."  And  how,  therefore,  can 
a  man,  devoid  of  knowledge  of  what  physical  science  has 
done  in  the  last  century,  enter  hopefully  upon  a  criticism 
of  modern  life? 

Let  us,  I  say,  be  agreed  about  the  meaning  of  the  terms 
we  are  using.  I  talk  of  knowing  the  best  which  has  been 
thought  and  uttered  in  the  world;  Professor  Huxley  says 
this  means  knowing  Literature.  Literature  is  a  large  word; 
it  may  mean  everything  written  with  letters  or  printed 
in  a  book.  Euclid^s  Elements  and  Newton^s  Principia  are 
thus  literature.  All  knowledge  that  reaches  us  through 
books  is  literature.  But  by  literature  Professor  Huxley 
means  belles  lettres.  He  means  to  make  me  say,  that  know- 
ing the  best  which  has  been  thought  and  said  by  the  modem 
nations  is  knowing  their  belles  lettres  and  no  more.  And 
this  is  no  sufficient  equipment,  he  argues,  for  a  criticism 
of  modem  life.  But  as  I  do  not  mean,  by  knowing  ancient 
Rome,  knowing  merely  more  or  less  of  Latin  belles  lettres, 
and  taking  no  account  of  Rome's  military,  and  political, 
and  legal,  and  administrative  work  in  the  world;  and  as, 
by  knowing  ancient  Greece,  I  understand  knowing  her  as 
the  giver  of  Greek  art,  and  the  guide  to  a  free  and  right 
use  of  reason  and  to  scientific  method,  and  the  founder  of 
our  mathematics  and  physics  and  astronomy  and  biology, — 


124  ARGUMENTATION 

I  understand  knowing  her  as  all  this,  and  not  merely  know- 
ing certain  Greek  poems,  and  histories,  and  treatises,  and 
speeches, — so  as  to  the  knowledge  of  modern  nations  also. 
By  knowing  modern  nations,  I  mean  not  merely  knowing 
their  belles  lettres,  but  knowing  also  what  has  been  done 
by  such  men  as  Copernicus,  Galileo,  Newton,  Darwin.  "  Our 
ancestors  learned,"  says  Professor  Huxley,  "  that  the  earth 
is  the  center  of  the  visible  universe,  and  that  man  is  the 
cynosure  of  things  terrestrial;  and  more  especially  was  it 
inculcated  that  the  course  of  nature  has  no  fixed  order,  but 
that  it  could  be,  and  constantly  was,  altered."  But  for  us 
now,  continues  Professor  Huxley,  "the  notions  of  the 
beginning  and  the  end  of  the  world  entertained  by  our 
forefathers  are  no  longer  credible.  It  is  very  certain  that 
the  earth  is  not  the  chief  body  in  the  material  universe, 
and  that  the  world  is  not  subordinated  to  man^s  use.  It 
is  even  more  certain  that  nature  is  the  expression  of  a 
definite  order,  with  which  nothing  interferes."  "  And  yet," 
he  cries,  "the  purely  classical  education  advocated  by  the 
representatives  of  the  humanists  in  our  day  gives  no  inkling 
of  all  this!" 

In  due  place  and  time  I  will  just  touch  upon  that  vexed 
question  of  classical  education;  but  at  present  the  question 
is  as  to  what  is  meant  by  knowing  the  best  which  modern 
nations  have  thought  and  said.  It  is  not  knowing  their 
helles  lettres  merely  which  is  meant.  To  know  Italian  belles 
lettres  is  not  to  know  Italy,  and  to  know  English  belles 
lettres  is  not  to  know  England.  Into  knowing  Italy  and 
England  there  comes  a  great  deal  more,  Galileo  and  Newton 
amongst  it.  The  reproach  of  being  a  superficial  humanism, 
a  tincture  of  belles  lettres,  may  attach  rightly  enough  to 
some  other  disciplines;  but  to  the  particular  discipline 
recommended  when  I  proposed  knowing  the  best  that  has 
been  thought  and  said  in  the  world,  it  does  not  apply.  In 
that  best  I  certainly  include  what  in  modern  times  has 


PROOF  AND  EVIDENCE  125 

been  thought  and  said  by  the  great  observers  and  knowers 
of  nature. 

5.  PROOF  AND  EVIDENCE 

Having  determined  upon  the  proposition  and  made 
clear  the  precise  point  or  points  at  issue,  the  argu- 
mentative writer  must  next  turn  his  attention  to  the 
question  of  proof.  To  prove  a  proposition,  something 
must  be  brought  forward  to  substantiate  it,  to  show 
that  there  is  ground  for  believing  it  true.  Anything 
BO  brought  forward,  that  is,  anj^thing  used  to  induce 
belief  in  the  truth  of  a  proposition,  is  called  evidence, 
or,  in  some  cases,  an  argument.  The  whole  body  of 
evidence  used  to  establish  the  truth  of  the  proposition 
is  called  the  proof. 

The  beginner  should  note  here  that  mere  assertion 
on  his  part  does  not  constitute  proof.  No  statement 
that  he  may  make  in  support  of  his  proposition  can 
be  regarded  as  evidence  of  its  truth  unless  that  state- 
ment is  in  itself  a  fact  or  truth  generally  accepted,  or 
unless  it  is,  in  its  turn,  supported  by  other  facts  or 
truths  about  which  there  is  no  dispute.  Every  state- 
ment made  in  support  of  the  proposition,  therefore, 
must  be  backed  up  by  unimpeachable  evidence.  The 
only  way  to  prove  a  proposition,  in  short,  is  to  bring 
forward  arguments  in  its  favor  which  every  one  ad- 
mits to  be  sound. 

As  so  much  depends  in  argumentation  upon  the 
soundness  of  the  arguments  used,  some  knowledge  of 
the  nature  and  kinds  of  evidence  will  be  found  helpful 
by  every  disputant.  Evidence,  as  we  have  already 
defined  it,  is  anything  used  to  induce  belief  in  the 


126  ARGUMENTATION 

truth  of  a  proposition.  Its  value  is  not  a  constant 
quantity.  It  may  be  strong  or  weak,  according  to 
circumstances.  From  weak  evidence  it  is  impossible, 
of  course,  to  build  up  a  satisfactory  proof.  To  know 
whether  a  given  bit  of  evidence  is  weak  or  strong,  is, 
therefore,  the  business  of  every  one  who  would  hope 
to  argue  successfully. 

A  thoroughly  satisfactory  classification  of  the  kinds 
of  evidence  is  not  easy  to  find.  The  most  natural 
classification,  perhaps,  as  it  certainly  is  the  most 
familiar,  is  that  which  divides  all  evidence  into  two 
kinds,  testimonial  evidence,  and  circumstantial  evi- 
dence. By  testimonial  evidence  is  meant  evidence 
given  by  a  human  being, — that  is,  evidence  which 
consists  of  statements  of  fact  or  of  opinion  based 
upon  some  person's  observation  or  experience  and 
bearing  directly  upon  the  point  at  issue;  by  circum- 
stantial evidence  is  meant  any  kind  of  evidence  that 
is  not  testimonial, — in  other  words,  any  kind  of  evi- 
dence that  owes  its  force  wholly  to  something  inherent 
in  itself,  and  not  to  the  fact  that  it  is  asserted  by  any 
particular  person.  Circumstantial  evidence  is  unlike 
testimonial  evidence  in  that  it  does  not  bear  directly 
upon  the  point  in  dispute,  but  must  be  made  to  apply 
to  it  by  inference. 

It  is  a  popular  supposition  that  testimonial  evidence 
is,  from  its  very  nature,  much  more  convincing  than 
circumstantial  evidence.  As  Huxley  points  out,  how- 
ever, this  is  an  unwarranted  assumption: 

"  Suppose  that  a  man  tells  you  that  he  saw  a  person 
strike  another  and  kill  him;  that  is  testimonial  evidence 


PROOF  AND  EVIDENCE  127 

of  the  fact  of  murder.  But  it  is  possible  to  have  circum- 
stantial evidence  of  the  fact  of  murder;  that  is  to  say,  you 
may  find  a  man  dying  with  a  wound  upon  his  head  having 
exactly  the  form  and  character  of  the  wound  which  is  made 
by  an  ax,  and,  with  due  care  in  taking  surrounding  cir- 
cumstances into  account,  you  may  conclude  with  the  utmost 
certainty  that  the  man  has  been  murdered;  that  his  death 
is  the  consequence  of  a  blow  inflicted  by  another  man  with 
that  implement.  We  are  very  much  in  the  habit  of  consid- 
ering circumstantial  evidence  as  of  less  value  than  testi- 
monial evidence,  and  it  may  be  that,  where  the  circumstances 
are  not  perfectly  clear  and  intelligible,  it  is  a  dangerous 
and  unsafe  kind  of  evidence;  but  it  must  not  be  forgotten 
that,  in  many  cases,  circumstantial  is  quite  as  conclusive 
as  testimonial  evidence,  and  that,  not  unfrequently,  it 
is  a  great  deal  weightier  than  testimonial  evidence. 
For  example,  take  the  case  to  which  I  referred  just 
now.  The  circumstantial  evidence  may  be  better  and 
more  convincing  than  the  testimonial  evidence;  for  it 
may  be  impossible,  under  the  conditions  that  I  have 
defined,  to  suppose  that  the  man  met  his  death  from  any 
cause  but  the  violent  blow  of  an  ax  wielded  by  another  man. 
The  circumstantial  evidence  in  favor  of  a  murder  having 
been  committed,  in  that  case,  is  as  complete  and  as  convinc- 
ing as  evidence  can  be.  It  is  evidence  which  is  open  to  no 
doubt  and  to  no  falsification.  But  the  testimony  of  a  witness 
is  open  to  multitudinous  doubts.  He  may  have  been  mis- 
taken. He  may  have  been  actuated  by  malice.  It  has  con- 
stantly happened  that  even  an  accurate  man  has  declared 
that  a  thing  has  happened  in  this,  that,  or  the  other  way, 
when  a  careful  analysis  of  the  circumstantial  evidence  has 
shown  that  it  did  not  happen  in  that  way,  but  in  some  other 
way."  ^ 

*See  Huxley's  Three  Lectures  on  Evolution. 


128  ARGUMENTATION 

A  distinction  must  be  made  between  ordinary  testi- 
mony and  the  testimony  of  an  expert  or  authority. 
The  latter,  if  it  can  be  employed,  is  much  more 
weighty,  of  course,  than  the  former.  Care  must  be 
taken,  however,  to  see  that  it  really  is  authoritative. 
Hence  before  using  the  argument  from  authority — 
under  which  term  is  included  not  only  the  testimony 
of  so-called  experts,  but  the  statements  or  assertions 
made  in  such  compilations  as  dictionaries,  encyclo- 
pedias, and  the  like — one  should  ask,  To  what  extent 
is  the  person  who  gives  the  testimony,  or  the  work 
which  is  cited,  as  the  case  may  be,  accepted  as  an 
authority?  The  force  of  the  argument  will  depend 
solely,  of  course,  upon  the  willingness  of  those  to 
whom  it  is  addressed  to  accept  anything  coming  from 
such  a  source  as  authoritative.  With  regard  to  ordi- 
nary testimony,  the  tests  to  apply  are  such  as  will 
determine  whether  or  not  the  person  giving  it  possesses 
average  intelligence  and  has  a  reputation  for  truth- 
fulness. 

Circumstantial  evidence  is  of  various  kinds.  These 
kinds  may  conveniently  be  grouped  under  three  heads : 
(1)  evidence  which,  from  a  known  cause,  points  to 
a  probable  effect;  (2)  evidence  which,  from  a  known 
effect,  points  to  a  probable  cause  or  necessary  con- 
dition of  that  effect;  (3)  evidence  which  is  founded 
on  the  belief  that  things  which  are  alike  in  one  or 
more  essential  particulars  are  apt  to  be  alike  in 
others.  Arguments  based  on  these  three  kinds  of  evi- 
dence are  commonly  known,  respectively,  as  the  argu- 
ments from  antecedent  probability,  from  sign,  and 
from  resemblance. 


PROOF  AND  EVIDENCE  120 

The  argument  from  antecedent  probability  tries 
to  account  for  the  fact  or  matter  in  dispute  by  bring- 
ing forward  some  known  fact  or  circumstances  pre- 
ceding it,  and  saying  that  the  former  might  be  ex- 
pected as  a  result  of  the  latter.  It  infers  what  is 
likely  to  happen  from  what  has  happened,  what  is 
likely  to  be  true  from  what  is  admittedly  true.  In 
general,  it  is  a  strong  argument ;  but  its  value  depends 
largely  upon  the  clearness  with  which  the  cause  and 
effect  relation  is  brought  out.  If  that  relation  is  made 
unmistakable,  the  force  of  the  argument  is  very  great, 
since  it  establishes  a  strong  presumption  in  favor  of 
the  proposition  to  be  proved.  For  the  argument  to 
become  conclusive,  however,  it  is  necessary  to  show 
not  only  that  the  known  cause  is  adequate  to  produce 
the  alleged  effect,  but  that  nothing  has  interfered  with 
its  producing  that  effect.  That  a  thing  is  likely  to 
happen  is  not,  of  course,  proof  conclusive  that  it  has 
actually  happened.  The  argument  from  antecedent 
probability,  therefore,  though  a  strong  argument,  must 
usually  be  supported  by  arguments  of  another  kind. 

The  argument  from  sign  is  the  exact  opposite  of 
the  argument  from  antecedent  probability.  It  tries 
to  account  for  the  fact  or  matter  in  dispute  by  bring- 
ing forward  other  facts  or  circumstances  which  are  in- 
disputable, but  which  themselves  can  be  satisfactorily 
accounted  for  only  on  the  supposition  that  the  fact 
in  dispute  is  true.  From  an  effect,  it  infers  a  cause 
or  necessary  condition  of  that  effect.  Thus,  the  ex- 
istence of  ice  in  a  pool  of  water  on  a  spring  morning 
is  an  indication  of  a  freezing  temperature  the  night 
before;  the  fact  that  the  clothes  of  a  man  accused 


130  ARGUMENTATION 

of  murder  are  found  to  be  bloody,  is  an  indication 
that  he  is  guilty  of  the  crime  charged  against  him. 
The  force  of  this  argument  varies  with  circumstances. 
A  single  argument  from  sign  may  be  so  weak  as  to 
be  almost  valueless  as  proof;  again,  it  may  be  abso- 
lutely conclusive.  For  example,  the  fact  that  a  man 
died  on  the  twentieth  of  the  month  proves  conclusively 
that  he  was  alive  on  the  nineteenth.  In  general,  the 
force  of  the  argument  comes  from  the  cumulative 
effect  of  a  number  of  signs  all  pointing  in  the  same 
direction. 

The  argument  from  resemblance  differs  from  both 
the  argument  from  antecedent  probability  and  the 
argument  from  sign  in  that  it  does  not  infer  directly 
an  effect  from  a  cause,  or  a  cause  from  an  effect,  but 
infers  rather  that  like  causes  will  be  followed  by  the 
same  or  similar  effects,  or  that  like  effects  must  result 
from  the  same  or  similar  causes.  Its  force  depends 
wholly  upon  the  kind  and  degree  of  resemblance  ex- 
isting between  the  things  compared.  If  the  resem- 
blance is  superficial  or  fanciful,  the  argument  has  no 
weight  whatever.  For  the  argument  to  have  proba- 
tive value,  the  resemblance  must  be  real, — that  is,  it 
*'  must  hold  in  all  particulars  essentially  connected 
with  the  point  under  discussion. ' '  ^ 

What  has  sometimes  been  called  the  "  argument 
from  analogy  ''  is  simply  a  particular  form  of  the 
argument  from  resemblance.  Here  the  resemblance 
is  not  so  much  in  the  things  themselves  as  in  the 
relations  in  which  they  stand  to  other  things.     This 

I  Baker  and  Huntington,  Principles  of  Argumentation,  p. 
107. 


PROOF  AND  EVIDENCE  131 

form  of  argument  is  never  very  weighty.  At  best, 
it  can  but  establish  a  strong  probability ;  it  can  never 
be  conclusive. 

We  might,  for  example,  be  able  to  show  that  the 
conditions  on  the  planet  Mars  were  almost  identical 
with  those  obtaining  on  the  earth ;  but  that  would  not 
be  proving  that  Mars  was  inhabited  by  living  beings, 
much  less  by  human  beings  like  ourselves. 

Reasoning  from  analogy  is,  however,  by  no  means 
to  be  discredited.  It  can  never,  indeed,  demonstrate 
to  a  certainty,  and  at  times  it  may  even  be  mislead- 
ing ;  yet  on  the  whole  it  has  been  found  to  be  a  method 
of  reasoning  having  great  practical  value.  It  is 
peculiarly  adapted  to  furnish  hints  or  starting-points 
for  new  lines  of  investigation.  In  the  field  of  scien- 
tific research,  analogy  has  often  pointed  the  way  to 
new  discoveries  or  new  applications  of  familiar  laws 
and  principles.  It  was  reasoning  from  analogy  that 
enabled  Darwin,  for  example,  to  hit  upon  his  famous 
theory  of  natural  selection.  In  studying  the  methods 
of  breeders  of  plants  and  animals,  selection,  he  ob- 
served, was  the  clue  to  their  success.  To  improve  a 
variety,  they  uniformly  selected  the  best, — ^that  is,  the 
fittest  for  the  particular  purpose  in  view, — and  al- 
lowed those  only  to  survive  and  propagate  their  kind. 
Why  might  not,  he  reasoned,  the  same  principle  hold 
true  in  nature  ?  Why  might  there  not  be  an  improve- 
ment of  races  or  varieties  by  natural,  as  well  as  by 
artificial  selection?  The  hint  thus  obtained  led  ulti- 
mately to  the  theory,  now  accepted  as  a  truth  by 
virtually  all  scientists,  that  species  owe  their  origin 
to  a  process  of  natural  selection. 


132  ARGUMENTATION 


6.   REPUTATION 


Argumentation  may  be  destructive  as  well  as  con- 
structive; that  is,  it  may  equally  as  well  aim  to 
prove  a  proposition  false  as  aim  to  prove  it  true.  Most 
argumentative  compositions,  indeed,  are  a  mixture  of 
constructive  and  destructive  reasoning ;  for  it  is  often 
necessary,  in  order  to  establish  the  truth  of  a  given 
proposition,  to  destroy  belief  in  its  opposite.  In  any 
case,  the  successful  argumentation  is  the  one  which 
not  only  advances  positive  proof  in  support  of  its 
proposition,  but  meets  all  weighty  objections  that 
either  are,  or  may  possibly  be,  urged  against  it.  De- 
structive argumentation,  or  argumentation  which  con- 
sists in  showing  that  an  opponent's  conclusions  are 
wrong  or  wrongly  arrived  at,  is  usually  called  refuta- 
tion. 

To  be  able  to  manage  refutation  well,  the  disputant 
must  not  only  know  what  constitutes  proof,  but  must 
be  able  to  detect  errors  in  reasoning.  Such  errors 
are  usually  known  as  fallacies.  Fallacies  may  arise 
either  from  lack  of  definition  of  the  terms  used,  from 
misinterpretation  of  evidence,  or  from  improper 
methods  of  making  inferences.  To  point  out  a  fallacy 
in  an  opponent's  argument,  is,  of  course,  to  invalidate 
any  conclusion  that  may  rest  on  that  argument. 

Fallacies  may  take  a  great  variety  of  forms.  It  is 
scarcely  worth  while  to  enumerate  them  all  here,  how- 
ever; it  will  suffice  if  a  few  of  the  more  common  are 
distinguished. 

The  ambiguous  term.  This  fallacy  consists  in  using, 
in  an  argument,  a  word  or  term  in  two  or  more 


REFUTATION  133 

senses,  though  ostensibly  in  one  only.  Sometimes  the 
fallacy  is  quite  transparent;  again,  it  is  so  subtle  as 
almost  to  escape  detection.  No  one,  probably,  is  de- 
ceived when  the  stump  speaker  triumphantly  declares 
that  X  ought  to  vote  the  Republican  ticket  because 
he  is  a  Republican  and  believes  in  a  republican  form 
of  government.  But  a  fallacy  like  that  in  the  follow- 
ing argument  is  very  apt  to  pass  unchallenged :  *  *  He 
is  the  Representative  in  Congress  of  our  district; 
therefore  he  should  really  represent  us,  do  as  we  should 
do,  were  we  ourselves  there  to  act  in  our  own  behalf.  *  * 
The  best  way  to  expose  fallacies  of  this  kind  is  to 
insist  rigorously  on  a  careful  definition  of  all  the  im- 
portant terms  used  in  the  argument. 

Begging  the  question.  The  fallacy  here  consists  in 
taking  for  granted  something  that  has  to  be  proved. 
The  most  common  form  in  which  it  occurs  is  in  the 
use  of  what  are  called  question-begging  epithets. 
Thus  if,  in  attacking  the  acts  or  policies  of  a  political 
opponent,  we  begin  by  calling  them  **  nefarious  ^'  or 
**  unstatesmanlike,  * '  and  then  proceed  to  condemn 
them  as  nefarious  or  unstatesmanlike,  we  obviously 
assume  what  it  should  be  our  business  to  prove. 

Arguing  beside  the  point.  It  sometimes  happens 
that  a  disputant  finding  it  hard  to  prove  the  proposi- 
tion he  began  with,  proves  some  other  proposition  very 
much  like  it,  and  assumes  that  it  is  virtually  the  same 
as  that  he  wished  to  prove.  In  such  a  case,  he  is  said 
to  argue  beside  the  point,  or  to  ignore  the  point  at 
issue.  Dr.  Johnson's  refutation  of  Berkeley's  ideal- 
ism by  kicking  a  stone  is  an  example  of  a  variety 
of  this  fallacy.    The  appeal  to  the  special  interests, 


134  ARGUMENTATION 

passions,  or  prejudices  of  a  particular  individual 
{argumentum  ad  hominem,  as  it  is  called)  is  also  a 
variety  of  this  fallacy. 

Assuming  that  to  he  true  of  the  whole  which  is  true 
only  of  the  part,  and  the  converse.  Fallacies  in  which 
assumptions  of  this  kind  are  made  are  technically 
called  the  fallacies  of  composition  and  of  division, 
respectively.  Thus  if  we  argue  that  because  partici- 
pation in  collegiate  athletic  contests  benefits  the  par- 
ticular individuals  who  take  part  in  them,  therefore 
such  contests  have  a  beneficial  effect  on  the  student 
body  as  a  whole,  we  commit  the  fallacy  of  composition. 
Contrariwise,  if  we  argue  that  because  the  Republican 
party  deserves  well  of  the  country,  therefore  X,  the 
Eepublican  candidate  for  district  Y,  ought  to  be  re- 
elected, we  commit  the  fallacy  of  division. 

The  false  cause.  The  most  common  form  of  this 
fallacy,  perhaps,  is  that  usually  known  as  post  hoc 
ergo  propter  hoc  (after  this,  therefore  because  of  this), 
in  which  the  assumption  is  made  that  because  one 
thing  follows  another,  there  is  therefore  a  necessary 
connection  between  the  two  things.  X,  for  instance, 
takes  a  certain  quack  remedy  for  the  rheumatism,  and 
finds,  after  a  few  days,  that  his  rheumatism  is  all 
gone;  he  leaps  to  the  conclusion,  accordingly,  that 
the  remedy  has  cured  his  malady,  whereas  it  may  have 
had  no  effect  one  way  or  the  other. 

Hasty  generalization.  The  fallacy  here  consists  in 
assuming  that  to  be  true  generally  which  happens  to 
be  true  in  one  or  two  particular  cases, — that  is  to  say, 
in  inferring  the  existence  of  a  law  or  general  truth 
from  a  too  narrow  basis  of  observation.    Because  we 


REFUTATION  135 

happen  to  have  been  unlucl^  in  certain  ventures  which 
we  began  on  a  Friday,  it  does  not  follow  that  Friday- 
is  an  unlucky  day  on  which  to  begin  anything.  Yet 
a  great  many  people  argue  in  precisely  this  fashion. 

The  disputant  must  remember  that  even  if  a  given 
argument  used  by  an  opponent  is  shown  to  rest  on 
a  fallacy,  it  does  not  necessarily  follow  that  his  con- 
clusions are  false.  They  may  be  true  for  other  reasons 
that  he  urges,  or  for  reasons  that  he  fails  to  urge. 
It  is  only  when  the  fallacious  argument  is  an  essential 
part  of  his  proof,  that  the  exposing  of  the  fallacy 
means  the  overthrow  of  his  conclusions.  Effective 
refutation  lays  bare  the  cardinal  points  of  a  chain  of 
reasoning  and  shows  that  they  are  incapable  of  sup- 
porting the  conclusions  that  rest  on  them. 

A  particularly  effective  method  of  refutation, 
wherever  it  can  be  employed,  is  that  known  as  reductio 
ad  absurdum, — that  is,  showing  that  an  opponent's 
arguments  lead  to  manifest  absurdities  when  carried 
to  their  logical  conclusion.  A  passage  from  Webster's 
Reply  to  Hayne  well  illustrates  the  method.  Senator 
Hayne,  with  others  of  his  party,  contended  that  "  in 
case  of  a  plain,  palpable  violation  of  the  Constitution 
by  the  general  government,  a  State  may  interpose ;  and 
that  this  interposition  is  constitutional."^  In  the 
course  of  his  reply,  Webster  cited  the  tariff  of  1828 
and  observed  as  follows: 

The  tariff  is  a  usurpation;  it  is  a  dangerous  usurpation; 
it  is  a  palpable  usurpation;  it  is  a  deliberate  usurpa- 
tion.   It  is  such  a  usurpation,  therefore,  as  calls  upon  the 

*  See  Webster's  Great  Speeches,  p.  256, 


136  ARGUMENTATION 

States  to  exercise  their  right  of  interference.  Here  is  a 
case,  then,  within  the  gentleman's  principles.  It  is  a  case 
for  action.  The  Constitution  is  plainly,  dangerously,  pal- 
pably, and  deliberately  violated;  and  the  States  must  inter- 
pose their  own  authority  to  arrest  the  law.  Let  us  suppose 
the  State  of  South  Carolina  to  express  this  same  opinion, 
by  the  voice  of  her  legislature.  That  would  be  very  im- 
posing; but  what  then?  Is  the  voice  of  one  State  con- 
clusive? It  so  happens  that,  at  the  very  moment  when 
South  Carolina  resolves  that  the  tariff  laws  are  unconstitu- 
tional, Pennsylvania  and  Kentucky  resolve  exactly  the  re- 
verse. They  hold  those  laws  to  be  both  highly  proper  and 
strictly  constitutional.  And  now,  sir,  how  does  the  honora- 
ble member  propose  to  deal  with  this  case?  How  does 
he  relieve  us  from  this  difficulty,  upon  any  principle  of 
his?  His  construction  gets  us  into  it;  how  does  he  propose 
to  get  us  out? 

In  Carolina,  the  tariff  is  a  palpable,  deliberate  usurpa- 
tion; Carolina,  therefore,  may  nullify  it,  and  refuse  to  pay 
the  duties.  In  Pennsylvania,  it  is  both  clearly  constitu- 
tional and  highly  expedient;  and  there  the  duties  are  to  be 
paid.  And  yet  we  live  under  a  government  of  uniform  laws, 
and  under  a  Constitution,  too,  which  contains  an  express 
provision,  as  it  happens,  that  all  duties  shall  be  equal  in 
all  the  States.    Does  not  this  approach  absurdity? 


7.   THE  BRIEF  AS  AN  AID  IN  ARGUMENTATION 

After  the  argumentative  writer  has  arrived  at  a 
clear  conception  of  what  it  is  he  wishes  to  prove,  and 
has  examined  the  evidence  in  support  of  his  proposi- 
tion which  he  has  at  his  disposal,  he  will  do  well  to 
make  a  brief  or  outline  of  the  course  which  he  plans 
to  have  his  argument  take.    In  exposition,  as  we  have 


THE  BRIEF  AS  AN  AID  IN  ARGUMENTATION     137 

seen,  the  outline  is  a  valuable  aid  in  enabling  the 
writer  to  set  forth  clearly  the  facts  or  principles  he 
wishes  to  explain ;  in  argumentation,  the  brief,  which 
is  simply  a  special  form  of  outline,  is  well-nigh  indis- 
pensable. It  enables  the  writer  to  see  at  a  glance  the 
precise  bearing  of  his  arguments  upon  his  proposition, 
and  very  greatly  facilitates  the  task  of  securing  their 
proper  arrangement. 

As  to  the  form  of  the  brief,  it  should  consist  of 
three  parts :  an  Introduction,  the  Brief  Proper,  and  a 
Conclusion.  A  good  Introduction  will  usually  (1)  de- 
fine such  terms  used  as  are  likely  to  be  misunderstood, 
(2)  explain  how  and  why  the  subject  comes  up  for 
discussion,  (3)  indicate  what  is  admitted  by  both  sides 
to  the  dispute,  (4)  give  the  conflicting  arguments  in 
the  case,  and  (5)  state  clearly  the  precise  points  it  is 
necessary  to  prove  in  order  to  establish  the  proposi- 
tion. The  Brief  Proper  should  then  take  up  the 
proposition,  or  the  points  at  issue  indicated  in  the 
Introduction,  and  outline  the  development  of  the 
argument.  This  can  best  be  done  by  putting  the  vari- 
ous arguments  used  in  support  of  the  proposition  in 
the  form  of  main  headings,  making  every  one  read  as 
a  reason  for  accepting  the  proposition,  or  point  to  be 
proved,  and  by  putting  every  subordinate  argument 
in  the  form  of  a  sub-heading  under  the  argument  it 
is  intended  to  support.  Each  heading  should,  of 
course,  be  in  the  form  of  a  complete  sentence.  The 
Conclusion  should  consist  simply  of  a  concise  sum- 
ming up  of  the  main  arguments  and  a  re-affirmation 
of  the  proposition. 

The  student  will  probably  find  it  best  to  make,  in 


138  ARGUMENTATION 

the  first  place,  a  short  brief,  giving  only  the  main 
arguments.  When  he  has  definitely  settled  upon  the 
order  of  these  arguments,  he  can  then  enlarge  this 
to  whatever  extent  may  be  deemed  desirable.  Of 
the  examples  given  below,  A  shows  a  preliminary, 
B  a  completed,  brief. 

Brief  A 

SHOULD  MANUAL  TRAINING  FORM  A  PART  OF 
THE  PUBLIC  SCHOOL  WORK  OF  THE  STATE? 

Introduction 

I.  The  question  of  manual  training  in  the  public  schools 

is  becoming  one  of  increasing  importance. 
II.  The  discussion  of  the  question  arises  from  the  fact 
that,  while  a  large  number  of  the  public  schools  of 
the  State  have  successfully  undertaken  manual 
training  during  the  last  twenty-five  years,  a  great 
many  still  fail  to  provide  such  training. 
III.  By  manual  training  is  meant  a  series  of  exercises 
in  a  properly  equipped  work  room  where  children 
are  taught  the  use  of  tools  and  the  properties  of 
such  materials  as  wood,  metal,  leather,  etc. 

Brief  Proper 

Manual  training  should  form  a  part  of  the  public  school 
work  of  the  State,  for 

I.  The  courses  of  instruction  in  the  public  schools  as 

now  arranged  are  inadequate  for  fully  developing 

the  child. 

II.  The  introduction  of  manual  training  would  tend  to 

strengthen  the  courses  where  they  are  now  weak. 


THE  BRIEF  AS  AN  AID  IN  ARGUMENTATION     139 

III.  The   addition   of  manual  training  will  not   interfere 

with  the  ordinary  academic  work  now  done  in  the 
schools. 

IV.  The  argument  that  the  cost   of  introducing  manual 

training  generally  into  the  public  schools  would  be 
prohibitive  is  not  warranted  by  the  facts. 

Conclusion 

I.  Since  manual  training  would  strengthen  the  present 
courses  of  study, 
n.  Since  it  would  benefit  rather  than  injure  the  intel- 
lectual work  now  done  in  the  schools, 
III.  And  since  the  cost  of  its  general  introduction  into  the 
schools  would  not  be  excessive, 
Therefore  it  should  be  made  a  part  of  the  public  school 
work  of  the  State. 

Brief  B 

SHOULD  MANUAL  TRAINING  FORM  A  PART  OF 
THE  PUBLIC  SCHOOL  WORK  OF  THE  STATE? 

Introduction 

I.  The  question  of  manual  training  in  the  public  schools 

is  becoming  one  of  increasing  importance. 
II.  The  discussion  of  the  question  arises  from  the  fact 
that,  while  a  large  number  of  the  public  schools  of 
the  State  have  successfully  undertaken  manual 
training  during  the  last  twenty-five  years,  a  great 
many  still  fail  to  provide  such  training. 
III.  By  manual  training  is  meant  a  series  of  exercises 
in  a  properly  equipped  work  room  where  children 
are  taught  the  use  of  tools  and  the  properties  of 
such  materials  as  wood,  metal,  leather,  etc. 


140  ARGUMENTATION 

IV.  Those  who  favor  making  manual  training  a  part  of 
the  public  school  work  usually  contend  that, 

A.  The  ordinary  public  schools  do  not  provide 

adequately  for  the  training  of  the  child's 
physical  powers. 

B.  The  average  child  will  find  skill  in  the  use 

of  tools  highly  advantageous  as  a  prepara- 
tion for  its  vocation  in  life. 

C.  This  skill  cannot  now  be  obtained  in   the 

home. 
V.  Those  who  oppose  making  manual  training  a  part 
of  the  public  school  work  contend,  ordinarily,  that, 

A.  The  courses  as  now  arranged  in  the  public 

schools  not  having  manual  training  develop 
the  child  as  completely  as  they  would  were 
manual  training  introduced. 

B.  Manual  training  will  add  little  or  nothing  to 

the  usefulness  of  the  training  the  child 
now  gets. 

C.  The  cost  of  introducing  manual  training  into 

all  the  public  schools  of  the  State,  even  if 
it  were  desirable,  would  be  prohibitive. 
VI.  The  following,  therefore,  seem  to  be  the  special  ques- 
tions to  be  decided: 

A.  Do  the  public  schools  of  the  State  at  present 

provide  adequately  for  the  full  develop- 
ment of  the  child? 

B.  If  not,  would  the  introduction   of  manual 

training  add  a  beneficial  element? 

C.  Would  the  addition  of  manual  training  affect 

either  the  quantity  or  the  quality  of  the 
purely  intellectual  work  now  done  in  the 
schools  ? 

D.  Would  the  cost  of  the  general  introduction 

of  manual  training  be  excessive  ? 


THE  BRIEF  AS  AN  AID  IN  ARGUMENTATION     141 
Brief  Proper 

I.  The  courses  of  instruction  in  the  public  schools  as 

now  arranged  are  inadequate  for  fully  developing 
the  child,  for 

A.  They  tend  almost  exclusively  toward  the  de- 

velopment of  the  mental  powers,  because 

1.  The  subjects  taught  are  such  as  re- 

quire memorizing  chiefly. 

2.  The  child  is  now  a  hearer,  merely,  not 

a  doer. 

B.  They  tend  to  foster  a  purely  idealistic  atti- 

tude in  the  child,  for 

1.  They  do  not  force  the  child  to  relate 
ideas  of  things  to  the  things  them- 
selves. 

C.  Much  of  the  training  which  they  give,  the 

child  is  unable  to  find  applicable  to  every- 
day life. 

D.  They  do  not  provide  adequately  for  the  de- 

velopment of  the  child's  physical  powers, 
for 
1.  Gymnastic  exercises  are  not  regularly 
conducted. 

II.  The  introduction  of  manual  training  would  tend  to 

strengthen  the  courses  where  they  are  now  weak, 
for 

A.  Manual  training  exercises  develop  properly 

the  physical  powers. 

B.  They  cultivate  dexterity  of  hand. 

C.  They  train  the  child  to  see  correctly,  reason 

soundly,  and  execute  accurately. 

D.  They  cultivate  habits  of  exactness,  order,  and 

neatness,  for 


142  ARGUMENTATION 

1.  The  tools  must  be  kept  in  their  places 

and  the  work  bench  kept  in  order. 

2.  Careless  or  slovenly  work  at  once  ac- 

cuses its  author. 

E.  They  develop  independence  and  self-reliance, 

for 

1.  Each  child  takes  part  in  planning  its 

own  work. 

2.  The  results  obtained  depend  entirely 

on  the  child's  own  care  and  skill. 

F.  They  stimulate  mental  development  in  a  nat- 

ural way,  for 

1.  They  encourage  the  planning  and  car- 
rying out  of  original  ideas  with 
means  at  the  disposal  of  the  child. 

G.  They  keep  the  child  in  touch  with  the  prac- 

tical side  of  life,  for 

1.  They  lead  to  the  production  of  useful 
commodities. 
H.  They  help  to  fit  the  child  to  make  a  wise 
choice  of  a  vocation  in  life,  for 

1.  They  give  it  a  chance  to  learn  some- 

thing about  the  various  trades. 

2.  They  enable  it  to  test  its  own  capa- 

bilities in  a  variety  of  ways. 
III.  The  addition  of  manual  training  will  not  interfere 
with  the  ordinary  academic  work  now  done  in  the 
schools,  for 

A.  The  manual  training  exercises  will  be  alter- 

nated properly  with  purely  intellectual 
work  and  will  thus  preserve  a  just  pro- 
portion between  mental  and  bodily  ex- 
ertion. 

B.  This  will  enable  the  child  to  do  more  and 

better  intellectual  work  in  the  time  devoted 


THE  BRIEF  AS  AN  AID  IN  ARGUMENTATION     143 

to  that  work  than  would  otherwise  be  pos- 
sible, because 

1.  It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  the  child 
cannot  profit  by  instruction  if  its 
mind  is  overtaxed  or  its  physical 
needs  are  not  satisfied. 
C.  Manual   training   stimulates   intellectual   de- 
velopment directly  as  well  as  indirectly, 
for 

1.  Judgment    and    intelligence    are    re- 
quired to  solve  the  tasks  it  sets. 
IV.  The  argument  that  the  cost  of  introducing  manual 
training  generally  into  the  public  schools  would  be 
prohibitive  is  not  sound,  for 

A.  The  equipment  need  not  be  elaborate,  because 

1.  Valuable  training  can  be  given  by 
means  of  simple,  moderate-priced 
tools. 

B.  The  cost  of  equipment  can  be  spread  over 

a  number  of  years. 

C.  The  operating  cost  can  be  kept  within  rea- 

sonable bounds,  because 

1.  The  materials  used  need  not  be  ex- 

pensive. 

2.  Many  of  the  pupils  would  be  glad  to 

pay  for  the  articles  made  if  allowed 
to  take  them  home. 

Conclusion 

I.  Since  manual  training  would  strengthen  the  present 

courses  of  study, 
U.  Since  it  would  benefit  rather  than  injure  the  intel- 
lectual work  now  done  in  the  schools, 
III.  And  since  the  cost  of  its  general  introduction  into  the 
schools  would  not  be  excessive, 


144  ARGUMENTATION 

Therefore  it  should  be  made  a  part  of  the  public  school 
work  of  the  State. 

8.   DEDUCTION  AND  INDUCTION 

Reasoning  consists,  for  the  most  part,  either  in  in- 
ferring the  particular  from  the  general  or  in  inferring 
the  general  from  the  particular.  Thus,  if  I  argue 
that  X  will  try  to  pay  his  just  debts  because  he  is 
an  honest  man,  I  am  assuming  as  a  general  truth 
that  all  honest  men  try  to  pay  their  just  debts,  and 
from  that  am  inferring  the  particular  truth  I  wish  to 
establish.  My  reasoning  in  this  case  is  said  to  be 
deductive.  On  the  other  hand,  if  from  my  observa- 
tion of  honest  men  I  find  that  they  invariably  try 
to  pay  their  just  debts,  and  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  all  honest  men  try  to  pay  their  just  debts,  I  am 
inferring  a  general  truth  from  a  number  of  particular 
truths.  In  this  case  my  reasoning  is  said  to  be  in- 
ductive. 

We  have  thus  two  general  methods  of  reasoning, 
the  deductive  and  the  inductive,  each  the  exact  oppo- 
site of  the  other.  Though  opposite  to,  they  are  by  no 
means  independent  of  each  other,  however.  Rather, 
each  is  the  complement  of  the  other.  A  deduction 
implies  a  general  truth  to  start  with,  and  a  general 
truth  is  the  result  of  an  inductive  process.  More- 
over, induction  must,  at  a  certain  stage  of  its  progress, 
adopt  the  deductive  method  before  it  can  finally  es- 
tablish its  conclusion. 

The  basis  of  a  deductive  argumentation  is  the  syl- 
logism. This  consists  of  a  set  of  three  propositions, 
two  of  which,  called  the  major  and  minor  premises, 


DEDUCTION  AND  INDUCTION  145 

are  joined  together  in  such  a  way  as  to  admit  of  the 
third,  called  the  conclusion,  being  derived  from  them. 
For  example : 

(1)  All   our   fellow-men   are   entitled   to   our 

sympathy Major  premise 

Criminals  are  our  fellow-men  .  .  Minor  premise 
Therefore   criminals   are   entitled   to    our 

sympathy Conclusion 

(2)  Seaweeds  are  not  flowering  plants  .      Major  premise 

This  is  a  seaweed Major  premise 

Therefore     this     is     not     a     flowering 

plant       Conclusion 

(3)  All  whales  are  mammals  ....      Major  premise 
All  whales  are  water  animals    .     .       Minor  premise 
Therefore   some   water   animals   are  mam- 
mals         Conclusion 

It  will  be  observed  that  in  each  of  these  syllogisms 
the  two  premises  together  contain  but  three  terms, 
one  term  being  common  to  the  two,  and  that  of  these 
three  terms,  two  appear  again  in  the  conclusion.  Thus 
the  conclusion  has  nothing  in  it  that  is  not  derived 
from  the  premises;  and  if  the  premises  be  admitted 
as  true,  there  is  no  escape  from  accepting  the  con- 
clusion as  true  also. 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  of  course,  that  in  actual 
discourse  we  ordinarily  find  syllogisms  fully  expressed, 
as  in  the  examples  given  above.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
we  seldom  find  them  so  expressed.  The  writer  who 
would  stop  to  make  all  the  minute  steps  of  his  reason- 


146  ARGUMENTATION 

ing  so  definite  and  explicit  as  that  would  be  considered 
formal  and  pedantic.  Reasoning  by  means  of  the 
regular  syllogism  is  the  exception  rather  than  the  rule. 
It  is  the  enthymeme,  or  incomplete  syllogism,  that  is 
ordinarily  employed ;  for  one  or  other  of  the  premises 
is  usually  a  truth  so  obvious  as  not  to  need  explicit 
statement,  as,  for  example,  in  the  following  cases : 

We  shall  die,  for  all  men  are  mortal. 

Brought  up  among  savages,  he  could  not  be  expected  to 
know  the  usages  of  polite  society. 

He  is  an  Oriental,  and  therefore  cannot  appreciate  the 
western  point  of  view. 

Plagues  and  convulsions  of  nature  cannot  be  interpreted 
as  manifestation  of  God^s  anger  against  the  wicked,  for  they 
involve  the  innocent  as  well  as  the  guilty. 

In  each  of  these  examples  one  of  the  premises  is 
suppressed,  it  being  so  obvious  that  the  reader  is  sup- 
posed to  supply  it  for  himself.  Occasionally,  even 
the  conclusion  may  be  omitted,  as,  for  example,  in  the 
following : 

Every  man  who  voted  for  that  measure  is  a  traitor  to  his 
country;  and  we  have  the  honorable  gentleman's  own  word 
for  it  that  he  cast  his  vote  in  its  favor. 

The  beginner  needs  to  be  cautioned  here  against 
the  danger  of  omitting  too  much,  of  taking  too  much 
for  granted.  That  which  appears  perfectly  obvious 
to  him  may  not  appear  obvious  at  all  to  his  readers. 
Before  making  any  assumptions  he  should  examine 
his  premises  carefully.    Whatever  can  safely  be  taken 


DEDUCTION  AND  INDUCTION  147 

for  granted  should,  of  course,  be  assumed.  Whatever 
is  doubtful  or  apt  to  be  misunderstood,  however, 
should  be  explained  and,  if  necessary,  supported  by- 
arguments.  It  is  in  this  elucidation  and  establishment 
of  his  premises,  in  fact,  that  the  main  work  of  the 
argumentative  writer  lies.  Where  the  premises  are 
universally  accepted  and  the  inference  is  plain,  there 
is  little  or  no  need  for  argument.  Argument  becomes 
necessary  only  where  one  or  other  of  the  premises 
needs  elucidation  and  support. 

A  passage  from  Webster's  argument  in  the  Dart- 
mouth College  case,  for  example,  will  illustrate  the 
point.  One  of  the  main  propositions  which  Webster 
sought  to  establish  in  this  celebrated  case  was  that 
certain  acts  of  the  New  Hampshire  legislature  in 
amending  the  charter  of  Dartmouth  College  without 
the  consent  of  the  trustees  were  repugnant  to  the 
Constitution  of  the  United  States.  Briefly  outlined, 
his  argument  takes  the  form  of  the  following  syllo- 
gism : 

The  Constitution  of  the  United  States  says  that  no  State 
shall  pass  a  law  impairing  the  obligation  of  a  contract. 

But  a  charter  to  a  private  corporation,  such  as  a  college, 
is  essentially  a  contract. 

Therefore  the  acts  of  the  New  Hampshire  legislature  in 
question  amending  the  charter  of  Dartmouth  College  with- 
out the  consent  of  the  trustees  are  repugnant  to  the  Con- 
stitution of  the  United  States. 

Here  the  major  premise  is  a  clause  of  the  Constitu- 
tion of  the  United  States,  which,  of  course,  is  accepted 
without  question.     But  the  minor  premise, — that  is, 


148  ARGUMENTATION 

that  a  charter  is  essentially  a  contract, — is  not  so 
clear.  This  premise,  therefore,  Webster  has  to  estab- 
lish. In  fact,  the  greater  part  of  his  speech  is  taken 
up  with  the  establishing  of  this  premise.  Slightly 
condensed,  his  argument  runs  as  follows: 

The  plaintiffs  contend,  in  the  second  place,  that  the  acts 
in  question  are  repugnant  to  the  tenth  section  of  the  first 
article  of  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States.  The  ma- 
terial words  of  that  section  are :  "  No  state  shall  pass  any 
bill  of  attainder,  ex  post  facto  law,  or  law  impairing  the 
obligation  of  contracts." 

It  has  already  been  decided  in  this  court,  that  a  grant  is 
a  contract,  within  the  meaning  of  this  provision;  and  that 
a  grant  by  a  State  is  also  a  contract,  as  much  as  the  grant 
of  an  individual.  In  the  case  of  Fletcher  v.  Peck  this  court 
says:  "A  contract  is  a  compact  between  two  or  more  par- 
ties, and  is  either  executory  or  executed.  An  executory- 
contract  is  one  in  which  a  party  binds  himself  to  do,  or  not 
to  do,  a  particular  thmg;  such  was  the  law  under  which 
the  conveyance  was  made  by  the  government.  A  contract 
executed  is  one  in  which  the  object  of  contract  is  performed; 
and  this,  says  Blackstone,  differs  in  nothing  from  a  grant. 
The  contract  between  Georgia  and  the  purchasers  was  ex- 
ecuted by  the  grant.  A  contract  executed,  as  well  as  one 
which  is  executory,  contains  obUgations  binding  on  the 
parties.  A  grant,  in  its  own  nature,  amounts  to  an  ex- 
tinguishment of  the  right  of  the  grantor,  and  implies  a 
contract  not  to  reassert  that  right.  If,  under  a  fair  con- 
struction of  the  Constitution,  grants  are  comprehended 
under  the  term  contracts,  is  a  grant  from  the  State  ex- 
cluded from  the  operation  of  the  provision?  Is  the  clause 
to  be  considered  as  inhibiting  the  State  from  impairing 
the  obligation  of  contracts  between  two  individuals,  but 


DEDUCTION  AND  INDUCTION  149 

as  excluding  from  that  inhibition  contracts  made  with  itself? 
The  words  themselves  contain  no  such  distinction.  They  are 
general  and  are  applicable  to  contracts  of  every  description. 

It  has  also  been  decided,  that  a  grant  by  a  State  before 
the  Revolution  is  as  much  to  be  protected  as  a  grant  since. 
But  the  case  of  Terret  v.  Taylor,  before  cited,  is  of  all 
others  most  pertinent  to  the  present  argument.  Indeed,  the 
judgment  of  the  court  in  that  case  seems  to  leave  little  to 
be  argued  or  decided  in  this.  "  A  private  corporation,"  says 
the  court,  "  created  by  the  legislature,  may  lose  its  franchises 
by  a  misuser  or  nonuser  of  them;  and  they  may  be  resumed 
by  the  government  under  a  judicial  judgment  upon  a  quo 
warranto  to  ascertain  and  enforce  the  forfeiture.  This  is 
the  common  law  of  the  land,  and  is  the  tacit  condition  an- 
nexed to  the  creation  of  every  such  corporation.  .  .  .  But 
that  the  legislature  can  repeal  statutes  creating  private 
corporations  or  confirming  to  them  property  already  ac- 
quired under  the  faith  of  previous  laws,  and  by  such 
repeal  can  vest  the  property  of  such  corporations  ex- 
clusively in  the  State,  or  dispose  of  the  same  to  such  pur- 
poses as  they  please,  without  the  consent  or  default  of  the 
corporators,  we  are  not  prepared  to  admit;  and  we  think 
ourselves  standing  upon  the  principles  of  natural  justice, 
upon  the  fundamental  laws  of  every  free  government,  upon 
the  spirit  and  letter  of  the  Constitution  of  the  United 
States,  and  upon  the  decisions  of  most  respectable  judicial 
tribunals,  in  resisting  such  a  doctrine." 

This  court,  then,  does  not  admit  the  doctrine,  that  a  legis- 
lature can  repeal  statutes  creating  private  corporations.  If 
it  cannot  repeal  them  altogether,  of  course  it  cannot  repeal 
any  part  of  them,  or  impair  them,  or  essentially  alter  them, 
without  the  consent  of  the  corporators.  If,  therefore,  it  has 
been  shown  that  this  college  is  to  be  regarded  as  a  private 
charity,  this  case  is  embraced  within  the  very  terms  of  that 


150  ARGUMENTATION 

decision.  A  grant  of  corporate  powers  and  privileges  is  as 
much  a  contract  as  a  grant  of  land.  What  proves  all 
charters  of  this  sort  to  be  contracts  is,  that  they  must  be 
accepted  to  give  them  force  and  effect.  If  they  are  not 
accepted,  they  are  void.  And  in  the  case  of  an  existing 
corporation,  if  a  new  charter  is  given,  it  may  even  accept 
part  and  reject  the  rest. 

There  are,  in  this  case,  all  the  essential  constituent  parts 
of  a  contract.  There  is  something  to  be  contracted  about, 
there  are  parties,  and  there  are  plain  terms  in  which  the 
agreement  of  the  parties  on  the  subject  of  the  contract  is 
expressed.  There  are  mutual  considerations  and  induce- 
ments. The  charter  recites,  that  the  founder,  on  his  part, 
has  agreed  to  establish  his  seminary  in  New  Hampshire,  and 
to  enlarge  it  beyond  its  original  design,  among  other  things, 
for  the  benefit  of  that  Province;  and  thereupon  a  charter 
is  given  to  him  and  his  associates,  designated  by  himself, 
promising  and  assuring  to  them,  under  the  plighted  faith 
of  the  State,  the  right  of  governing  the  college  and  admin- 
istering its  concerns  in  the  manner  provided  in  the  charter. 
There  is  a  complete  and  perfect  grant  to  them  of  all  the 
power  of  superintendence,  visitation,  and  government.  Is 
not  this  a  contract?  If  lands  or  money  had  been  granted  to 
him  and  his  associates,  for  the  same  purpose,  such  grant 
could  not  be  rescinded.  And  is  there  any  difference,  in  legal 
contemplation,  between  a  grant  of  corporate  franchises  and 
a  grant  of  tangible  property?  No  such  difference  is  recog- 
nized in  any  decided  case,  nor  does  it  exist  in  the  common 
apprehension  of  mankind. 

It  is  therefore  contended,  that  this  ease  falls  within  the 
true  meaning  of  this  provision  of  the  Constitution,  as  ex- 
pounded in  the  decisions  of  this  court;  that  the  charter  of 
1769  is  a  contract,  a  stipulation  or  agreement,  mutual  in 
its  considerations,  express  and  formal  in  its  terms,  and  of 


DEDUCTION  AND  INDUCTION  151 

a  most  binding  and  solemn  nature.  That  the  acts  in  ques- 
tion impair  this  contract,  has  been  sufficiently  shown.  They 
repeal  and  abrogate  its  most  essential  parts. 


The  deductive  method  is  a  very  important  and  use- 
ful method  of  reasoning,  but  it  has  its  limitations. 
Its  great  defect  is  that,  of  itself,  it  is  powerless  to 
aid  us  in  the  discovery  of  new  truth.  Every  conclu- 
sion we  arrive  at  by  this  method  is  but  the  rendering 
clear,  or  the  making  application  of,  some  particular 
truth  involved  in  a  more  general  one,  and  therefore  by 
implication  already  known.  When  we  wish  to  find 
out  new  truth,  to  make  new  generalizations  or  estab- 
lish new  laws,  we  must  proceed  by  the  inductive 
method.  In  inductive  reasoning,  we  start  with  par- 
ticular facts  or  truths  known  to  us  from  our  observa- 
tion and  seek  to  find  some  general  truth  or  principle 
underlying  them  and  giving  them  meaning  or  unity. 

A  conclusion  arrived  at  by  the  inductive  method, 
once  it  is  established,  may  be  used,  of  course,  as  a 
starting  point  for  a  deductive  argumentation.  Thus 
a  writer,  in  endeavoring  to  establish  a  given  truth, 
may  use  both  the  inductive  and  deductive  methods  in 
one  and  the  same  discourse.  He  may  proceed  now 
by  means  of  the  one  and  again  by  means  of  the  other, 
using  them  in  succession  and  each  as  an  aid  and  sup- 
port to  the  other.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  reasoning  in 
this  way  is  much  more  common  than  reasoning  by 
the  purely  inductive,  or  the  purely  deductive  method. 
It  is  the  method  the  mind  naturally  employs  in  un- 
studied and  informal  reasoning.  **  Our  thought,'' 
says  Professor  Creighton,  **  uses  every  means  which 


152  ARGUMENTATION 

will  help  it  to  its  desired  end.  It  is  often  able,  after 
pushing  its  inquiries  a  little  way,  to  discover  some 
general  principle,  or  to  guess  what  the  law  of  con- 
nection must  be.  When  this  is  possible,  it  is  found 
profitable  to  proceed  deductively,  and  to  show  what 
results  necessarily  follow  from  the  truth  of  such  a 
general  law.  Of  course,  it  is  always  essential  to 
verify  results  obtained  in  this  deductive  way,  by  com- 
paring them  with  the  actual  facts.  But  in  general, 
the  best  results  are  obtained  when  induction  and  de- 
duction go  hand  in  hand.  * '  ^ 

Inductive  reasoning  is  essentially  the  endeavor  to 
establish  causes  for  the  phenomena  which  have  en- 
gaged our  attention.  "When  we  note  facts  and  seek 
an  explanation  of  those  facts,  we  reason  inductively. 
In  this  search  for  the  explanation  we  desire,  our  ordi- 
nary procedure  is  first  to  make  a  guess  as  to  what 
that  explanation  is  and  then  to  try  to  find  out  whether 
our  guess  is  correct  or  not.  Thus,  in  the  whole  process 
of  inductive  reasoning,  three  distinct  steps  are  distin- 
guishable : 

(1)  Observation,  or  the  gathering  of  the  particular 
facts  to  be  used  as  the  basis  of  the  induction. 

(2)  The  making  of  an  hypothesis,  or  the  provi- 
sional explanation  of  the  facts. 

(3)  Verification,  or  the  comparison  of  deductions 
from  the  hypothesis  with  known  facts  or  principles. 

The  gathering  of  the  facts  is,  of  course,  preliminary 
work.     Ordinarily,  the  writer  begins  his  argumenta- 
tion with  some  reference  to  his  hypothesis,  which  may 
*  J.  E.  Creighton,  Introductory  Logic,  pp.   174,   176. 


DEDUCTION  AND  INDUCTION  153 

be  stated  explicitly  at  the  beginning  or  left  as  a  matter 
of  inference  for  the  reader.  The  one  decisive  test 
of  a  good  hypothesis  is  its  complete  accordance  with 
facts.  If  it  is  not  in  agreement  with  known  facts,  or 
is  inadequate  to  the  explanation  of  all  the  facts  it  is 
required  to  explain,  it  must  be  discarded  and  some 
more  probable  hypothesis  adopted.  That  this  test 
may  be  applied,  however,  the  hypothesis  must  be  of 
such  a  nature  as  to  admit  of  deductions  being  made 
from  it.  **  An  hypothesis  from  which  nothing  can  be 
deduced,  .  .  .  is  of  no  value  whatever.  It  always 
remains  at  the  stage  of  mere  possibility,  and  without 
any  real  connection  with  fact.  It  is  a  mere  guess 
which  has  no  significance  whatever,  for  it  is  entirely 
incapable  either  of  proof  or  of  disproof."^ 

Such  a  useless  hypothesis  is  that,   for  example, 
stated  first  in  the  following  passage: 

The  adaptation  of  the  external  coloring  of  animals  to 
their  condition  of  life  has  long  been  recognized,  and  has 
been  imputed  either  to  an  originally  created  specific  pe- 
culiarity, or  to  the  direct  action  of  climate,  soil,  or  food. 
Where  the  former  explanation  has  been  accepted,  it  has 
completely  checked  inquiry,  since  we  coulJ  never  get  any 
further  than  the  fact  of  the  adaptation.  There  was 
nothing  more  to  be  known  about  the  matter.  The  second 
explanation  was  soon  found  to  be  quite  inadequate  to 
deal  with  all  the  varied  phenomena,  and  to  be  contradicted 
by  many  well-known  facts.  For  example,  wild  rabbits  are 
always  of  gray  or  brown  tints  well  suited  for  concealment 
among  grass  and  fern.  But  when  these  rabbits  are  do- 
mesticated, without  any  change  of  climate  or  food,  they 
>  Ibid.,  p.  242. 


154  ARGUMENTATION 

vary  into  white  or  black,  and  these  varieties  may  be 
multiplied  to  any  extent,  forming  white  or  black  races. 
Exactly  the  same  thing  has  occurred  with  pigeons;  and  in 
the  case  of  rats  and  mice,  the  white  variety  has  not  been 
shown  to  be  at  all  dependent  on  alteration  of  climate,  food, 
or  other  external  conditions.  In  many  cases,  the  wings  of 
an  insect  not  only  assume  the  exact  tint  of  the  bark  or 
leaf  it  is  accustomed  to  rest  on,  but  the  form  and  veining 
of  the  leaf  or  the  exact  rugosity  of  the  bark  is  imitated; 
and  these  detailed  modifications  cannot  be  reasonably  im- 
puted to  climate  or  food,  since  in  many  cases  the  species 
does  not  feed  on  the  substance  it  resembles,  and  when  it 
does,  no  reasonable  connection  can  be  shown  to  exist  be- 
tween the  supposed  cause  and  the  effect  produced.^ 

The  verification  or  proof  of  an  hypothesis  is  essen- 
tially a  deductive  process.  In  verifying  an  hypothe- 
sis, we  reason  in  some  such  fashion  as  this:  If  this 
hypothesis  is  true,  then  such  and  such  consequences 
should  follow;  these  consequences  do  follow — ^that 
is,  they  are  in  accord  with  all  the  known  facts 
bearing  on  the  matter;  therefore  the  hypothesis  is 
true. 

The  familiar  story  of  how  Torricelli  proved  that  the 
air  has  weight,  and  incidentally  invented  the  barom- 
eter, illustrates  the  method  perfectly.  It  had  been 
noticed  by  his  master,  Galileo,  that  water  would  not 
rise  in  a  suction  pump  beyond  thirty-two  or  thirty- 
three  feet.  Torricelli,  in  trying  to  explain  why  it 
should  rise  at  all,  hit  upon  the  idea  that  it  was  because 
of  the  pressure  of  the  atmosphere,  the  weight  of  the 
air  balancing  the  column  of  water.  If  this  were  so, 
*  From  Alfred  Russel  Wallace's  Natural  Selection. 


DEDUCTION  AND  INDUCTION  155 

he  reasoned,  then  a  liquid  heavier  than  water  would 
rise  to  a  less  height.  Mercury,  for  instance,  which  is 
a  little  more  than  thirteen  times  heavier  than  water, 
would  rise  less  than  one  thirteenth  as  far.  On  invert- 
ing, in  a  basin  of  mercury,  a  glass  tube  about  four  feet 
long,  and  hermetically  sealed  at  one  end,  he  found  that 
the  result  was  as  he  had  conjectured.  The  mercury 
in  the  tube  sank  to  about  thirty  inches  above  the  level 
of  that  in  the  basin.  His  hypothesis  was  thus  veri- 
fied, and  the  world  was  benefited  by  the  invention 
of  a  very  useful  instrument. 

The  verification  of  the  hypothesis  should,  of  course, 
be  conducted  with  the  utmost  care  possible.  Accurate 
observations  and  rigid  scrutiny  of  the  facts  used  are 
indispensable  as  a  preliminary,  since  no  induction 
based  on  doubtful  facts  can  have  much  validity.  But 
even  if  the  writer  is  sure  of  his  facts,  he  needs  to  be 
cautioned  against  generalizing  on  too  narrow  a  basis. 
He  needs  to  be  cautioned  also  against  the  assumption 
that  a  single  test  satisfactorily  passed  necessarily  estab- 
lishes an  hypothesis.  In  some  cases,  such  as  the  one 
just  cited,  a  single  test  may  be  sufficient ;  but  in  most 
cases  it  is  not.  It  often  happens  that  a  phenomenon  re- 
sults from  a  complexity  of  causes,  in  which  case  a  num- 
ber of  tests  made  under  varying  conditions  will  be  nec- 
essary to  reveal  all  the  causes.  For  example,  at  a  given 
altitude  the  application  of  a  certain  degree  of  heat 
to  water  in  an  open  vessel  will  cause  it  to  boil;  but 
we  cannot  therefore  infer  that  water  will  always  boil 
when  brought  to  this  same  temperature.  At  a  lower 
altitude,  it  will  not  boil  until  a  higher  temperature 
is  reached.    In  other  words,  pressure  as  well  as  heat 


156  ARGUMENTATION 

must  be  taken  into  account  in  determining  the  boiling 
point  of  a  fluid. 

To  guard  against  error,  therefore,  the  tests  em- 
ployed in  verifying  an  hypothesis  should  be  as  many 
and  as  varied  as  possible.  Moreover,  wherever  it  is 
convenient,  experiment  should  be  used  as  an  aid  to 
observation.  When  we  can  control  the  conditions 
under  which  a  phenomenon  occurs,  we  can  the  more 
readily  determine  the  cause  of  that  phenomenon. 


SPECIMENS  OF  ARGUMENTATION 

Of  the  specimens  of  argumentation  given  below, 
the  first  three  illustrate  the  deductive,  the  last  the 
inductive,  method  of  reasoning. 

Should  the  Panama  Canal  be  Fortified?^ 

It  is  announced — and  we  are  authorized  to  say  that  the 
announcement  correctly  represents  the  President's  views — 
that  the  President  is  in  favor  of  fortifying  the  Panama 
Canal;  that  he  has  always  been  in  favor  of  its  fortification 
ever  since  his  early  connection  with  it  as  Secretary  of 
War;  that  he  believes  that  there  is  nothing  in  the  Hay- 
Pauncef ote  Treaty  inconsistent  with  such  fortification ;  that, 
on  the  contrary,  that  treaty  both  implicitly  and  explicitly 
recognizes  the  right  of  the  United  States  to  fortify  it; 
that  Colonel  Goethals,  who  is  in  charge  of  the  construction 
of  the  Canal,  is  in  thorough  sympathy  with  the  President's 
views  on  this  subject,  and  that  in  the  construction  of  the 
Canal  he  has  in  mind  facilities  for  its  future  fortification. 

The  Outlook  agrees  with  the  President's  policy  in  this 
respect,  which  was  the  policy  of  his  predecessor.  The 
grounds  for  this  policy  will  best  appear  from  a  brief  his- 
torical statement.  For  neutralization  and  non-fortification 
are  not  the  same.  And  non-fortification  of  the  present 
Canal  has  at  no  time  been  entertained  as  a  poHcy  by  our 
Government.     It  is  one  of  the  disadvantages  of  the  com- 

» From  the  Outlook,  October  1,  1910. 
157 


158  ARGUMENTATION 

plete  separation  between  the  executive  and  legislative 
branches  of  the  Government  that  it  gives  encouragement 
to  absolute  Congressional  non-continuity  of  thought  and 
policy.  The  Executive,  with  the  consent  of  the  Senate,  will 
negotiate  a  treaty,  and  that  treaty  will  be  carried  out,  and 
a  few  years  later,  not  only  newspapers  and  individual  citi- 
zens, but  even  members  of  Congress,  especially  of  the  lower 
branch  of  CongTess,  will  seem  to  forget  everything  con- 
nected with  what  has  been  assumed  by  the  nation  itself 
to  be  a  well-settled  and  well-thought-out  policy,  and  will 
start  in  to  reverse  it. 

The  first  Hay-Pauncefote  treaty  provided  that  the  Pan- 
ama Canal  should  not  be  fortified,  and  that  its  neutrality 
should  be  guaranteed  by  various  European  powers.  The 
Senate,  by  an  overwhelming  vote,  and  with  the  cordial 
approbation  of  practically  the  entire  country,  amended  the 
treaty  by  striking  out  both  these  provisions.  It  was  then 
argued,  and,  as  we  believe,  convincingly,  that  to  invite  the 
European  powers  to  gaurantee  the  neutrality  of  the  Canal 
was  to  invite  the  official  violation  of  the  Monroe  Doctrine, 
and  definitely  to  establish  on  American  shores  European 
military  powers  with  the  right  guaranteed  to  interfere  in 
American  affairs.  Moreover,  the  complete  failure  of  a 
similar  effort  to  control  Egypt  and  the  Suez  Canal  in  the 
interest  of  civilization,  a  scheme  which  broke  down  so 
absolutely  as  to  render  it  necessary  for  England  to  herself 
assume  the  burden  of  managing  Egypt  and  policing  the 
Canal,  was  a  sufficient  warning  against  our  repeating  the 
experiment  that  had  failed.  Still  further,  the  senators  and 
public  men  who  opposed  the  treaty  in  its  unamended  form 
pointed  out  that  we  had  no  right  as  a  nation  to  leave  in 
the  hands  of  others  the  control  in  war  time  of  the  Canal, 
when  such  control  might  be  vital  to  our  own  interests.  It 
was  argued  that  if  we  undertook  the  enormous  expense  of 
digging  the  Canal  and  managing  it,  it  was  not  merely  an 


SPECIMENS  OF  ARGUMENTATION  159 

absurdity,  but  a  criminal  absurdity,  to  refrain  from  seeing 
that  it  was  not  managed  against  our  own  interests,  and 
that  of  course  we  should  fortify  it;  that  while  guaranteeing 
its  absolute  neutral  use  by  all  nations  in  times  of  peace, 
and  while  guaranteeing  that  it  should  not  be  used  by  one 
nation  as  against  another  in  time  of  war,  we  should  keep 
it  under  our  own  control,  so  that  it  should  not  only  not 
be  used  against  us,  but  also  should  enable  us  to  have  one 
fleet  instead  of  two  fleets  for  use  in  the  Atlantic  and  Pacific 
Oceans  at  any  and  all  times.  This  was — indeed  is — one  of 
the  prime  reasons  for  its  existence.  The  argument  was  that 
the  right  to  fortify  the  Canal  and  to  use  it  in  our  own  de- 
fense was  an  elemental  right,  like  that  of  self-defense; 
that,  of  course,  there  was  not  the  slightest  need  of  putting 
this  in  any  treaty;  but  there  was  imperative  need  of 
eliminating  its  denial  from  any  treaty. 

The  Senate  amendments  were  carried.  After  the  lapse 
of  some  time  Secretary  Hay  and  Ambassador  Pauncefote 
produced  another  draft  of  the  treaty  which  practically  em- 
bodied the  Senate  amendments,  and  struck  out  the  provisos 
to  which  objection  had  been  made.  Before  submitting  this 
treaty  to  the  Senate,  the  then  President,  Mr.  Roosevelt, 
categorically  inquired,  both  of  Mr.  Hay  and  the  ambas- 
sador, if  the  striking  out  of  the  objectionable  provisos  was 
clearly  understood  to  carry  by  implication  the  right  of  the 
United  States  to  fortify  the  Canal  and  to  control  it  for 
its  own  defense  in  time  of  war,  or  when  war  impended; 
and  the  President  submitted  the  treaty  only  on  the  assur- 
ance that  of  course  the  abolition  of  the  objecting  para- 
graphs meant,  and  could  only  mean,  the  acceptance  of  the 
view  upon  which  the  President  insisted.  This  bit  of  inside 
history  happens  to  be  within  the  personal  ken  of  the  editors 
of  the  Outlook,  but  it  is  mentioned  merely  as  casting  a  side- 
light on  the  event,  and  not  as  having  any  importance, 
because  the  facts  speak  for  themselves.     The  treaty  was, 


160  ARGUMENTATION 

in  effect,  rejected  until  the  objectionable  clauses  were 
struck  out,  and  was  ratified  on  the  ground,  openly  and  re- 
peatedly taken,  that,  with  the  clauses  struck  out,  the  United 
States  obtained  the  right  to  fortify  the  Canal,  the  duty  to 
police  it,  and  the  further  right  to  control  it  for  its  own 
benefit  if  menaced  by  war.  This  right  was  further  ex- 
plicitly recognized  by  the  clause  that  the  United  States  shall 
be  at  liberty  to  maintain  such  military  police  along  the 
Canal  as  may  be  necessary  to  protect  it  against  lawlessness 
and  disorder.  To  suppose  that  England,  while  holding 
Egypt,  would  permit  the  Suez  Canal  to  be  used  by  a  hostile 
fleet  against  the  interest  of  Egypt  is  an  absurdity;  but  it 
is  not  quite  so  great  an  absurdity  as  to  suppose  that,  after 
building  with  American  money  and  by  American  enterprise 
the  Panama  Canal,  and  after  having  assumed  the  full  mone- 
tary and  other  responsibility  of  repairing  it,  of  policing  it, 
of  securing  the  health  of  the  Canal  Zone,  and  in  every  way 
taking  care  of  it,  the  United  States  is  then  to  turn  over 
the  real  control  of  the  Canal  to  foreign  powers,  to  assume 
a  secondary  position,  and  to  trust  to  what  has  in  the  past 
so  often  turned  out  to  be  the  veriest  broken  reed,  a  general 
international  agreement  of  amity,  to  protect  its  vital  inter- 
est in  time  of  war. 

It  ought  always  to  be  regarded  as  a  matter  of  primary 
national  obligation  that  the  nation  keep  its  promises;  it 
is  always  wrong  for  the  nation  to  make  a  promise  which 
cannot  be  kept  and  ought  not  to  be  kept  when  the  need 
for  breaking  it  arises.  As  political  candidates  ought  not 
to  be  asked  to  promise  the  impossible  because  to  make 
such  promises  puts  a  premium  upon  intellectual  dishonesty 
in  the  candidates,  as  the  nation  ought  not  to  pass  sweeping 
resolutions  for  unqualified  and  universal  arbitration  look- 
ing towards  a  hoped-for  millennium  of  international  peace, 
with  the  absolute  certainty  that  the  nation  would  instantly 
disregard  its  resolutions  in  case  a  concrete  matter  affecting 


SPECIMENS  OF  ARGUMENTATION  161 

its  own  vital  interests  and  its  elemental  duties  should  arise, 
so  it  should  refuse  to  enter  into  any  treaty  obligation 
which  it  is  morally  certain  would  be  disregarded  under 
the  stress  and  strain  of  war. 

In  time  of  war  any  administration  would  be  derelict  to 
its  duty  which  failed  instantly  to  prevent  the  Canal  from 
being  used  by  an  enemy,  and  which  failed  to  use  it  in  the 
interest  and  for  the  protection  of  the  United  States.  Since 
such  a  course  would  have  to  be  pursued  immediately  upon 
the  outbreak  of  war,  it  would  be  an  iniquity  for  the  nation  in 
time  of  peace  explicitly  or  implicitly  to  promise  the  reverse. 

We  said  that  we  would  leave  Cuba,  and  do  what  we 
could  to  make  Cuba  an  independent  nation.  We  kept  our 
word.  Forced  again  to  interfere  in  Cuba,  we  still  treated 
the  word  as  a  continuing  obligation,  and  kept  it.  Wisely, 
we  refused  to  make  any  such  promise  in  the  Philippines, 
and  in  the  Philippines  it  could  not  have  been  kept.  Eng- 
land, unfortunately  for  itself,  adopted  the  opposite  policy 
in  Egypt.  She  promised  definitely  to  get  out  of  Egypt.  It 
was  a  thoroughly  unwise  promise  to  make.  It  would  be 
infinitely  to  the  harm  of  Egypt,  of  England,  and  of  civiliza- 
tion if  it  were  kept.  But  no  small  part  of  England's  dif- 
ficulty in  Egypt  arises  from  the  fact  that  this  foolish  prom- 
ise was  made;  and  that,  while  it  would  be  a  great  wrong  to 
keep  it,  the  fact  of  having  made  it  puts  England  in  the 
wrong  when  assailed  for  having  failed  to  fulfil  the 
promise. 

The  Canal  Zone  is  United  States  territory.  The  Canal 
itself  is,  to  all  intents,  a  part  of  the  coast  line  of  the 
United  States.  We  may  well  agree  that  all  nations  may 
use  it  for  peaceful  transit  on  equal  terms;  but  we  have 
no  right  to  agree  that  a  nation  at  war  with  us  may  use 
it  in  attacking  us;  and,  if  such  an  agreement  were  made, 
no  administration  could  or  would  keep  the  agreement.  It 
is  inconceivable  that,  had  the  Panama  Canal  been  in  ex- 


162  ARGUMENTATION 

istence  during  the  Spanish  War,  the  United  States  would 
have  allowed  a  Spanish  fleet  to  pass  through  it  for  the 
purpose  of  attacking  our  Pacific  coast.  Nor  has  the  nation 
any  right,  by  a  policy  of  fatuous  optimism,  to  prohibit  itself 
from  preventing  the  use  of  the  Canal  by  a  foreign  power, 
if  the  attempt  should  ever  be  made  so  to  use  it  with  hostile 
intent. 

In  view  of  the  fact  that  it  is  only  between  England  and 
the  United  States  that  any  serious  controversy  can  arise 
over  the  American  policy  of  fortification,  the  attitude  of 
the  London  Spectator  is  significant.  The  Spectator,  which 
reflects  the  most  intelligent  opinion  in  Great  Britain  on 
public  questions,  thinks  that  "  armed  control  of  the  Canal 
by  the  United  States  is  the  simplest  solution  of  the  dif- 
ficulty, not  only  for  the  United  States,  but  for  the  whole 
world." 

Fortifying  the  Canal  ^ 

Six  sound  and  unanswerable  reasons  for  not  fortifying  the 
Panama  Canal  have  been  advanced  by  such  men  and  women 
as  John  Graham  Brooks,  Richard  Olney,  President  Jordan 
of  Leland  Stanford  University,  Ida  Tarbell,  Jane  Addams, 
and  many  others,  including  one  of  the  ablest  of  our  United 
States  judges,  George  C.  Holt.  The  first  alone  ought  to 
convince  the  country  that  to  expend  millions  for  guns  and 
forts  at  Panama  would  be  a  criminal  waste.  It  is  a  simple 
reminder  that  under  the  laws  of  war,  as  fixed  by  the  Hague 
Conference  in  1907,  unfortified  coast  places  cannot  be  bom- 
barded. Warships  could  not  lie  off  Panama  and  Colon  and 
shell  these  towns,  because  to  do  so  would  be  to  place  their 
crews  in  the  category  of  those  who  poison  wells  and  delib- 
erately kill  women  and  children — acts  expressly  forbidden 
to  the  troops  of  all  civilized  nations.  Lack  of  fortification 
:would  thus  of  itself  become  a  protection  to  the  canal  zone. 
*From  the  Nation,  January  19,  191L 


SPECIMENS  OF  ARGUMENTATION  163 

The  signers  of  the  protest  then  point  out  that  it  was  the 
original  intention  to  prohibit  the  fortification  of  the  canal, 
and  this  pacific  intent  was  not  affected  by  the  failure  to 
mention  it  in  the  Hay-Pauncefote  treaty.  Nor  was  the 
Panama  Canal  proposed  primarily  as  a  military  under- 
taking, although  the  voyage  of  the  Oregon  in  the  Spanish 
War  did  focus  public  opinion  upon  the  desirability  of 
building  the  inter-ocean  waterway.  The  Suez  Canal  was 
neutralized  by  England,  the  nation  which  built  it;  the 
Strait  of  Magellan  is  neutralized,  and  the  very  important 
Inter-Parliamentary  Union  declared  itself  only  last  year  in 
favor  of  the  neutralization  of  all  inter-ocean  waterways. 
Moreover,  as  the  protestants  point  out,  we  have  pledged 
to  England  by  the  most  solemn  treaty  obligations  that  the 
Panama  Canal  shall  always  be  open  to  British  warships 
in  times  of  peace  or  of  war.  Again,  the  whole  spirit  of 
fortification  is  against  the  modem  tendency  of  settling  mat- 
ters by  international  arbitration  and  makes  a  mockery  of 
President  Taf  t's  "  impressive  declaration  that  he  sees  no 
reason  why  any  question  whatever  should  not  be  arbi- 
trated." As  for  the  cost,  as  Congressman  Foster  has  pointed 
out,  it  will  in  all  probability  be  not  less  than  fifty  millions 
of  dollars  with  an  annual  cost  of  maintenance  of  at  least 
five  millions. 

Naturally,  the  signers  of  this  remarkable  statement  do 
not  overlook  the  question  of  the  denunciation  or  violation 
of  treaties  made  both  for  arbitration  and  other  purposes. 
This  is  a  stock  argument  of  those  who  believe  in  fortification. 
"  Why,"  they  ask,  "  do  you  put  your  faith  in  treaties  when 
almost  every  war  has  been  preceded  by  a  violation  of 
treaties?  If  you  fortify  the  canal,  you  do  not  need  treaties, 
and  you  are  safe  for  all  time."  To  this  the  reply  is  that 
if  an  international  agi'eement  for  neutralization  should 
carry  with  it  the  penalty  of  non-intercourse  with  the  offend- 
ing nation  by  all  the  other  signatory  Powers,  there  would 


164  ARGUMENTATION 

be  an  effective  check  upon  any  attempted  violation  of  the 
treaty.  Again,  that  treaties  have  been  broken  is  no  more 
a  reason  for  refusing  to  make  new  ones  than  the  fact 
that  some  men  and  women  violate  the  marriage  law  is  an 
argument  against  the  contract  of  marriage.  If  some  treaties 
have  been  violated,  many  others  have  stood  the  test  of  time, 
notably  that  far-sighted  agreement  with  England  which 
prevented  the  erection  of  fortifications  and  the  housing  of 
large  garrisons  along  our  Canadian  boundary.  What  vast 
sums  would  have  been  wasted  along  that  line  if  the  mili- 
tarists had  had  their  wish! 

In  his  splendid  address  at  the  peace  meeting  in  this  city 
on  Friday,  Congressman  Foster,  who  occupies  the  highly 
important  position  of  chairman  of  the  Foreign  Affairs  Com- 
mittee of  the  House,  laid  stress  upon  what  we  owe  to  future 
generations  in  this  Panama  matter.  We  are  placing  upon 
them,  as  it  is,  the  duty  of  paying  for  the  canal,  and  now 
some  propose  to  put  upon  them,  too,  the  cost  of  fortification 
and  the  standing  army  that  is  to  be  banished  to  the  Isthmus. 
Again,  as  Mr.  Foster  put  it,  to  fortify  the  canal,  after 
having  given  assurances  to  Great  Britain  and  the  Republic 
of  Panama  before  ever  a  spade  of  earth  was  turned  up 
there,  that  the  canal  would  be  neutralized,  "  would  be  equiv- 
alent to  saying  to  a  foreign  government.  You  have  bound 
yourselves  to  observe  our  rules  of  neutrality,  but  we  do 
not  trust  you,  and,  therefore,  beware  of  our  guns."  As 
for  neutralizing  and  fortifying,  too,  when  has  a  neutralized 
territory  been  violated?  Not  Switzerland,  certainly,  amid 
all  the  upheavals  in  Europe;  and  plainly  the  excellent 
militia  which  Switzerland  has  was  no  deterrent  in  1870-71. 
Why  is  it  that  such  repeated  proposals  are  made  for  the 
neutralization  of  Holland,  except  that  the  neutralization 
of  Belgium  has  so  successfully  protected  that  little  country 
from  all  fear  of  annexation  by  either  Germany  or  France? 
It  is  unthinkable  that   any  nation   would   dare  in  these 


SPECIMENS  OF  ARGUMENTATION  165 

times  to  violate  neutrality — least  of  all  in  the  case  of  such 
a  great  work  of  man  as  the  canal  at  Panama,  which  is 
primarily  for  the  benefit  of  the  commerce  of  the  entire 
world. 

But,  whether  there  is  or  is  not  such  a  danger,  the  policy 
of  fortification  is  the  policy  of  reaction  and  retrogression, 
and  therefore  particularly  to  be  shunned  by  a  forward- 
looking  nation  like  the  United  States.  It  gives  the  lie  to 
our  avowals  of  a  desire  to  be  let  alone  and  to  live  in  peace. 
It  means  that  when  the  time  comes,  as  come  it  must,  for  an 
appeal  to  the  nations  to  neutralize  the  Philippine  Islands, 
we  shall  be  met  with  suspicion  and  distrust  and  contemptu- 
ous references  to  our  policy  in  Panama.  In  the  direction 
of  neutralization  and  non-fortification,  we  can  only  repeat 
once  more,  lies  the  path  to  fame  and  glory,  as  well  as  hu- 
manity, both  for  Mr.  Taft  and  for  his  country. 

The  Income  Tax  Amendment  ^ 

The  American  Constitution,  with  its  fifteen  amendments, 
completes  the  labors  of  the  American  people  in  an  effort 
to  build  for  their  Government  its  foundation.  Gladstone 
said  of  it : 

"As  the  British  Constitution  is  the  most  settled  organ- 
ism which  has  proceeded  from  progressive  society,  so  the 
American  Constitution  is  the  most  wonderful  work  ever 
struck  off  at  a  given  time  by  the  brain  and  purpose  of 
man." 

Gladstone  was  right.  It  is  the  greatest  document  con- 
taining the  simplest  plan  for  a  self-governing  people  ever 
framed.  It  leaves  in  the  hands  of  the  people  to  whom  the 
government  belongs  all  the  machinery  of  government. 
Under  it  public  policies  are  determinable  alone  by  the  peo- 

*By  Senator  Norris  Brown;  see  the  Outlook,  January  22, 
1910. 


166  ARGUMENTATION 

pie.  They  have  the  power,  if  they  choose  to  exercise  it,  to 
repeal  every  law  on  the  statute  books  or  to  enact  any  new 
law,  limited  only  by  a  Constitution  which  they  have  the 
power  to  amend.  There  is,  in  truth,  no  limit  to  the  power 
of  the  people  in  free  America  under  our  form  of  govern- 
ment. The  sun  never  rose  on  another  people  so  blessed  with 
power  or  so  freighted  with  responsibility. 

For  forty-one  years  the  Constitution  as  it  now  reads  has 
stood  with  no  sustained  effort  on  the  part  of  Congress  or 
the  people  to  further  amend  it.  But  at  the  last  session  of 
Congress  a  joint  resolution  was  introduced  and  passed, 
receiving  every  vote  in  the  United  States  Senate  and  all 
but  fourteen  votes  in  the  House  of  Representatives,  pro- 
posing the  Sixteenth  Amendment. 

It  reads: 

"  Congress  shall  have  the  power  to  lay  and  collect  taxes 
on  incomes  from  whatever  source  derived,  without  appor- 
tionment among  the  several  States  and  without  regard  to 
any  census  or  enumeration." 

The  question  presented  is.  Should  this  amendment  be 
ratified  by  the  States?  I  hold  the  affirmative  of  the  propo- 
sition. My  conviction  is  unalterable  that  the  safety  of 
the  Nation  may  depend  on  the  power  conferred  by  this 
amendment.    Its  ratification  is  therefore  imperative. 

In  the  first  place,  the  issue  does  not  raise  a  question  of 
party  politics.  On  the  record,  the  two  great  political  par- 
ties of  the  country  stand  in  favor  of  the  amendment.  One 
indorsed  it  in  its  last  National  platform,  and  both  indorsed 
it  by  voting  for  the  joint  resolution  in  the  last  Congress. 

This  amendment  should  receive  the  support  of  every  man 
who  believes  as  an  economic  policy  that  the  incomes  of  the 
country  should  at  all  times  bear  a  share  of  the  burdens 
of  government.  It  should  also  have  the  support  of  those 
who  do  not  believe  in  that  economic  policy  in  times  of 
peace  because  other  forms  of  taxation  fail  in  times  of  war. 


SPECIMENS  OF  ARGUMENTATION  167 

No  patriotic  citizen  can  deny  his  country  in  distress  this 
source  of  revenue  even  if  he  would  do  so  in  times  of  peace 
and  quiet.  As  the  Constitution  reads  to-day  under  the  last 
interpretation  of  the  Supreme  Court,  our  Government  is 
without  power  to  tax  incomes  directly,  no  matter  what  the 
need  or  how  great  the  necessity. 

Section  8  of  Article  I  provides  that  Congress  shall  have 
the  power  to  lay  and  collect  taxes,  duties,  imposts,  and 
excises.  This  provision  of  Section  8  is  modified  by  another 
provision  of  Section  9  of  the  same  article,  which  reads: 

"  No  capitation  or  other  direct  tax  shall  be  laid  unless  in 
proportion  to  the  census  or  enumeration  hereinbefore  di- 
rected to  be  taken." 

From  these  provisions  it  is  clear  that  the  framers  of  the 
Constitution  intended  that  the  revenues  with  which  to  run 
the  Government  should  be  raised  by  custom  duties,  excises, 
and  imposts,  and  not  by  direct  taxation.  For  it  is  obvious 
to  the  casual  student  that  to  levy  direct  taxes  on  either 
lands  or  incomes  in  proportion  to  the  population  of  the 
States  would  work  such  inequality  and  gross  injustice  as 
to  render  the  tax  intolerable  and,  as  Supreme  Justice 
Brown  said,  "  impossible." 

During  all  the  years  of  the  country's  history  no  continued 
effort  has  been  made  to  lay  and  collect  taxes  on  any  kind 
of  property,  real  or  personal,  apportioned  according  to 
population.  However,  at  different  times  in  our  history  Con- 
gress has  undertaken  to  tax  incomes.  Congress  acted  on 
the  theory  that  a  tax  on  incomes  was  not  a  direct  tax, 
and  therefore  need  not  be  laid  with  regard  to  apportion- 
ment among  the  States  according  to  population  as  provided 
in  Section  9. 

From  the  beginning  every  law  seeking  to  lay  an  income 
tax  has  been  assailed  in  the  courts.  Beginning  with  the 
Hylton  case  in  1789,  reported  in  3  Dallas,  171,  and  ending 
with  the  Springer  case  in  1880,  reported  in  102  U.  S.,  586, 


168  ARGUMENTATION 

the  Supreme  Court  continuously  and  consistently  held  such 
a  law  Constitutional.  The  opinion  of  the  Court  in  these 
cases  rested  on  the  proposition  that  a  tax  on  incomes  was 
not  a  direct  tax,  and  was  therefore  not  inhibited  by  the 
Constitution.  It  will  be  recalled  that  the  Springer  case 
involved  the  validity  of  an  act  of  Congress  passed  during 
the  Rebellion.  The  Union  was  broken  in  credit  and  the 
Government  at  WasJiington  was  selling  its  bonds  at  a  heavy 
discount.  The  National  currency  had  depreciated  and  the 
Union  was  in  urgent  need  of  money  with  which  to  provide 
the  Union  forces  with  maintenance  and  equipment.  The 
life  of  the  Union  was  at  stake. 

Congress  had  exhausted  every  resource  except  a  tax  on 
incomes.  It  was  in  obedience  to  the  cry  of  the  country's 
distress  that  Lincoln  asked  Congress  to  furnish  the  neces- 
sary funds  by  laying  a  tax  on  incomes.  The  law  was 
passed;  millions  of  dollars  were  collected  under  it  at  a  time 
when  the  Government  vitally  needed  the  money.  Springer 
assailed  the  constitutionality  of  the  law.  After  full  argu- 
ment and  mature  consideration,  the  Court  sustained  the 
law,  and  Springer's  homestead  was  sold  by  the  marshal 
for  the  collection  of  the  tax.  In  so  deciding  the  Court  fol- 
lowed the  decision  in  the  Hylton  case,  which  involved  the 
same  principle. 

So  we  find  that  the  uniform  and  uninterrupted  interpre- 
tation of  the  Constitution  by  the  Court  had  sustained  the 
power  of  Congress  to  lay  and  collect  taxes  on  incomes  for 
nearly  a  century.  But  in  1895  the  Supreme  Court  was 
called  upon  to  pass  for  the  third  time  on  the  same  ques- 
tion. The  income  tax  law  of  1864  had  been  repealed  and 
a  new  statute  restoring  the  tax  had  been  enacted  in  1894. 
A  suit  was  brought  to  determine  the  validity  of  the  1894 
statute  on  the  subject.  It  is  known  as  the  Pollock  case, 
and  is  reported  in  157  U.  S.,  429. 

This  suit  involved  the  identical  principle  decided  in  the 


SPECIMENS  OF  ARGUMENTATION  169 

Hylton  and  Springer  cases.  It  was  argued  with  marked 
ability  by  distinguished  lawyers  on  its  first  submission  to 
the  Court,  and  again  at  great  length  on  the  rehearing. 
The  Attorney-General  of  the  United  States,  Richard  Olney, 
of  Massachusetts,  appeared  with  other  great  lawyers  in 
behalf  of  the  Constitutional  power  of  Congress  to  tax 
incomes.  The  decision  of  the  Court,  however,  in  effect 
reversed  the  holding  in  the  Hylton  and  Springer  cases  and 
held  the  law  unconstitutional.  The  Court  put  the  reversal 
on  the  ground  that  a  tax  on  incomes  was  a  direct  tax,  and 
unless  apportioned  according  to  population  could  not  be 
collected. 

It  is  idle  to  discuss  whether  the  last  decision  of  the 
Supreme  Court  on  this  question  was  right  or  wrong.  Such 
a  decision  would  avail  nothing,  because,  right  or  wrong,  the 
decision  of  the  Supreme  Court,  under  our  form  of  govern- 
ment, stands  as  the  law  of  the  land.  It  binds  every  citizen. 
It  cannot  be  ignored  either  by  the  people  or  Congress. 

In  this  case  the  judgment  of  the  Court  was  that  Congress 
had  no  power  to  tax  incomes.  Surely  Congress  would  not 
be  justified  in  passing  another  law  of  the  same  character 
and  import  in  the  face  of  that  judgment,  at  least  not  with- 
out at  the  same  time  making  an  effort  to  amend  the  Con- 
stitution so  as  to  confer  on  Congress  such  power.  And  if 
it  did  so,  the  people  would  have  a  right  to  question  its  good 
faith.  Who  contends  that  Congress  should  ever  do  what 
the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States  holds  it  cannot 
do?  The  strength  of  our  form  of  government  lies  in  the 
plan  of  its  distribution  of  powers,  legislative,  executive,  and 
judicial — the  three  co-ordinate  branches  of  government — 
each  supreme  in  its  field.  Under  this  plan  the  power 
of  the  judiciary  is  supreme  in  determining  the  constitu- 
tionality of  a  law.  Under  this  plan  the  legislative  branch 
is  supreme  in  determining  what  laws  shall  be  enacted  in 
the  first  instance;   but   when  enacted,   it   is   wholly   and 


170  ARGUMENTATION 

exclusively  within  the  power  of  the  judiciary  to  interpret 
and  construe  them;  to  sustain  or  set  them  aside,  if  in 
the  judgment  of  the  Court  they  contravene  any  of  the 
provisions  of  the  Constitution. 

The  Court  having  been  clothed  by  the  people  with  author- 
ity under  the  Constitution  to  say  what  Congress  can  or 
cannot  do,  and  having  spoken  on  the  subject,  the  people 
are  driven  to  amend  the  Constitution,  the  only  remedy 
they  have. 

The  people  demand  the  ratification  of  the  amendment, 
in  the  first  place,  because  they  insist  that  their  Government 
shall  have  all  the  rights,  powers,  and  prerogatives  as  a 
Government  that  are  enjoyed  by  every  other  sovereign 
nation.  The  power  of  taxation — a  power  exercised  by 
every  full-grown  government — is  a  sovereign  attribute.  If 
the  right  to  tax  incomes  is  denied,  the  right  of  taxation 
is  impaired.  No  nation  could  exist  for  any  length  of  time 
if  the  power  of  taxation  is  taken  entirely  away.  If  it  is 
partly  taken  away,  its  life  is  jeopardized  that  far.  The 
purpose  of  this  amendment  is  to  restore  beyond  dispute 
that  power.  This  Republic  should  be  a  Nation  shorn  of 
no  attribute  nor  prerogative  incident  to  National  sov- 
ereignty. 

There  is  another  reason  why  the  amendment  should  be 
ratified.  No  man  can  tell  how  soon  this  country  may  be 
in  need  of  the  revenue  which  could  be  obtained  only  by  a 
tax  on  incomes.  We  have  learned  from  experience  that 
at  one  time  at  least  in  this  country  the  Nation  depended 
on  an  income  tax  for  its  life.  While  to-day  there  may  be 
no  such  emergency,  we  have  no  assurance  that  it  may  not 
again  arise.  Should  it  ever  come,  who  cares  to  be  re- 
sponsible for  withholding  a  power  from  the  Government 
which  may  be  necessary  for  its  existence? 

Should  we  have  a  foreign  war,  our  revenue,  now  raised 
chiefly  from  revenue  duties,  would  inevitably  cease,  or  at 


SPECIMENS  OF  ARGUMENTATION  171 

least  be  greatly  reduced.  With  customs  duties  impaired,  to 
what  source  of  revenue  could  Congress  look  for  the  money 
to  carry  on  war  or  to  maintain  the  Government  in  the 
meantime?  It  is  not  a  foolish  apprehension  to  suggest  this 
possible  situation.  Neither  is  this  the  first  time  that  it 
has  been  suggested.  Mr.  Justice  Harlan,  of  the  Supreme 
Court,  in  his  dissenting  opinion  in  the  Pollock  case,  said 
on  this  phase  of  the  subject : 

"  In  my  judgment,  to  say  nothing  of  the  disregard  of  the 
former  adjudications  of  this  Court  and  of  the  settled  prac- 
tice of  the  Government,  this  decision  may  well  excite  the 
gravest  apprehension.  It  strikes  at  the  very  foundation 
of  National  authority  in  that  it  denies  to  the  General  Gov- 
ernment a  power  which  is  or  may  become  vital  to  the  very 
existence  and  preservation  of  the  Union  in  a  National 
emergency,  such  as  that  of  war  with  a  great  commercial 
nation,  during  which  the  collection  of  imposts  will  cease 
or  be  materially  diminished." 

These  words  ought  to  strike  deep  into  the  heart  of  every 
American.  They  come  from  the  lips  of  a  man  who  demon- 
strated his  patriotism  and  fidelity  to  the  old  flag  long  before 
he  honored  the  Nation  by  consenting  to  become  one  of  its 
Supreme  Justices.  He  loved  the  Union  as  only  he  can 
love  it  who  helped  to  save  it.  Harlan  the  judge  in  that 
sentence  became  Harlan  the  soldier,  the  citizen,  the  patriot, 
the  statesman,  calling  to  the  American  people  to  amend  the 
Constitution  for  the  sake  of  the  Union.  His  words  were 
not  lightly  spoken.  They  came  from  his  great  mind  and 
heart,  full  of  apprehension  and  love  for  his  native  land, 
its  civilization,  and,  above  all  else,  its  preservation.  But 
this  venerable  and  learned  American  jurist  does  not  stop 
with  the  words  quoted. 

He  says  further : 


172  ARGUMENTATION 

"  But  the  serious  aspect  of  the  present  decision  is  that  by 
a  new  interpretation  of  the  Constitution  it  so  ties  the  hands 
of  the  legislative  branch  of  the  Government  that,  without 
an  amendment  to  that  instrument,  or  unless  the  Court 
should  at  some  future  time  return  to  the  old  theory  of  the 
Constitution,  Congress  cannot  subject  to  taxation,  however 
great  the  need  or  pressing  the  necessity  of  the  Govern- 
ment, either  the  invested  personal  property  of  the  country, 
bonds,  stocks,  and  investments  of  all  kinds,  or  the  income 
arising  from  the  renting  of  real  estate,  or  from  the  yield 
of  personal  property,  except  by  the  grossly  unequal  and 
unjust  rule  of  apportionment  among  the  States." 

Will  any  one  who  believes  in  fair  and  equitable  taxation 
answer  this  argument?  Who  among  our  citizens  desires  to 
exempt  the  earnings  of  the  bonds  and  stocks  and  all  per- 
sonal investments  from  Federal  taxation  should  the  neces- 
sities of  the  Government  require?  What  is  there  about  the 
interest  collected  on  bonds,  or  the  dividend  declared  on 
stocks,  or  the  income  collected  by  the  landlords  of  the 
country  from  the  tenants  of  the  country,  that  they  should 
be  left  beyond  the  reach  of  the  Federal  Government  in  its 
search  for  the  revenues  necessary  for  maintenance? 

If  it  is  desired  that  these  securities  should  escape  all 
contributions  to  the  Federal  treasury,  the  amendment  should 
be  defeated;  but  such  a  desire  is  in  full  discord  with  the 
great  multitude  of  fair-thinking  and  fair-dealing  men  who 
believe  that  all  kinds  of  property  should  enjoy  equal  rights 
and  should  bear  equal  burdens  under  the  law.  But,  inde- 
pendently of  the  economic  honesty  of  taxing  incomes,  the 
amendment  deserves  support  for  other  reasons.  The  ques- 
tion presented  is  not  whether  an  income  tax  should  be 
levied  now;  the  question  is.  Shall  the  Government  have 
the  power  to  levy  such  a  tax  if  such  a  tax  ever  becomes 
necessary? 


SPECIMENS  OF  ARGUMENTATION  173 

Patriotic  citizenship  insists  that  the  Government  shall 
have  adequate  powers.  Mr.  Justice  Brown,  in  his  opinion 
in  the  Pollock  case,  observes: 

"  It  is  certainly  a  strange  commentary  upon  the  Constitu- 
tion of  the  United  States  and  upon  a  democratic  Govern- 
ment that  Congress  has  no  power  to  lay  this  tax  which 
is  one  of  the  main  sources  of  revenue  of  nearly  every  civi- 
lized state.  It  is  a  confession  of  feebleness  in  which  I  find 
myself  wholly  unable  to  join." 

If  this  learned  Justice  was  right  in  declaring  it  to  be  a 
strange  commentary  on  the  Constitution  of  the  United 
States  to  hold  that  it  gave  Congress  no  power  to  tax 
incomes,  it  will  be  a  sad  commentary  on  the  citizenship  of 
the  people  of  the  United  States  if  they  allow  the  Con- 
stitution to  remain  in  that  form. 

If  it  be  contended  that  the  amendment  should  not  be 
adopted  until  the  Supreme  Court  has  had  another  oppor- 
tunity to  review  and  reverse  its  last  interpretation  of  the 
Constitution,  the  reply  is,  The  country  has  had  enough 
of  judicial  interpretation  of  the  Constitution  in  that  re- 
spect. Already  judges  of  equal  ability  and  integrity  have 
passed  at  different  times  different  opinions  on  that  ques- 
tion. Already  the  courts  have  decided  it  both  ways.  This 
demonstrates  that  there  is  so  much  doubt  and  uncertainty 
as  to  the  meaning  of  the  Constitution  in  this  respect  that 
no  opinion  of  the  Court,  on  whichever  side  of  the  question 
it  may  be  written,  is  certain  to  be  followed  by  future 
Justices. 

The  people  of  the  United  States  have  a  right  to  a  Con- 
stitutional provision  on  the  subject  which  shall  not  be 
debatable — a  provision  which  will  speak  for  itself;  one 
that  will  need  no  judicial  interpretation.  Americans  have 
the  right  to   know  whether  the   Constitution   gives   their 


174  ARGUMENTATION 

Government  the  power  to  tax  incomes  or  whether  it  with- 
holds that  power.  The  adoption  of  the  Sixteenth  Amend- 
ment would  settle  the  question. 

We  have  many  provisions  in  the  Constitution  which  are 
not  open  to  different  interpretations.  For  example,  the 
Constitution  provides  that  the  people  shall  have  a  Presi- 
dent of  the  United  States  in  whom  is  placed  chief  executive 
authority.  That  provision  has  never  been  questioned,  be- 
cause it  is  not  susceptible  of  two  constructions.  It  is  cer- 
tain and  definite.  So,  likewise,  the  provision  that  the  Ex- 
ecutive is  Coromander-in-Chief  of  the  army  and  navy  is 
certain  and  definite.  These  provisions  are  above  and  beyond 
the  reach  of  nullification  by  judicial  interpretation,  because 
they  are  simple  and  plain  in  their  words  and  terms. 

Why  should  there  be  any  doubt  as  to  the  power  of  the 
Government  to  tax  incomes'?  Is  there  any  reason  founded 
in  our  civilization  or  in  our  institutions  why  the  Govern- 
ment, which  belongs  to  us,  and  is  our  creation,  and  must 
respond  to  our  will  and  pleasure  in  the  matter  of  taxa- 
tion, should  be  without  the  power  conferred  by  the  pro- 
posed amendment? 

If  it  be  argued  that,  for  any  reason,  a  tax  on  incomes 
should  not  be  levied,  this  is  not  an  argument  against  the 
adoption  of  the  amendment,  because  the  proposed  amend- 
ment does  not  suggest  that  an  income  tax  law  should 
be  enacted  now.  It  contains  no  indication  that  it  is  in 
the  purpose  of  the  Government  or  of  Congress  to  pass  such 
a  law.  Therefore  those  who  are  opposed  to  taxing  incomes 
as  a  general  economic  policy  need  feel  no  alarm.  The  only 
function  the  amendment  possesses  and  the  only  thing  it 
proposes  to  do  is  to  confer  the  power  on  Congress.  It 
contains  no  pledge  that  the  power  will  ever  be  exercised. 
Its  exercise  will  still  be  left  to  the  further  discretion  of 
the  people. 

If  it  be  argued  that  an  income  tax  is  just  and  should 


SPECIMENS  OF  ARGUMENTATION  175 

be  imposed  by  Congress,  the  Supreme  Court  has  said  that 
no  such  tax  can  ever  be  constitutionally  laid  by  Congress 
under  the  present  Constitution.  Those  of  our  people  who 
believe  in  the  equity  and  justice  of  placing  a  share  of  the 
burdens  of  government  on  the  incomes  of  the  country  cannot 
expect  ever  to  see  such  a  tax  imposed,  either  in  time  of 
peace  or  of  war,  under  the  latest  decision  of  the  Supreme 
Court,  unless  the  Constitution  is  amended.  So  that,  in  the 
final  analysis,  those  who  favor  an  income  tax  law,  to  be 
consistent,  must  favor  this  amendment;  while  those  who 
oppose  such  a  law  in  times  of  peace,  to  be  patriotic,  must 
not  oppose  it,  for  no  reason  has  yet  been  suggested  why 
our  Government  should  be  without  power  to  lay  the  tax  in 
times  of  National  emergency. 

The  only  point  so  far  made  against  the  amendment  is 
that  it  might,  in  some  mysterious  way,  weaken  the  States. 
Just  how  it  could  impair  the  strength  of  any  State  is  not 
made  clear  by  those  who  raise  this  objection.  If  it  is 
thought  that  the  Federal  Government  might  tax  the  State 
out  of  its  existence,  the  answer  is.  It  did  not  have  that 
effect  or  even  tendency  when  incomes  were  taxed.  The  last 
effective  income  tax  law  in  this  country  was  in  force  during 
the  sixties.  It  had  the  opposite  effect  then,  for  it  not 
only  kept  all  of  the  States  in  existence,  but  it  helped  to 
bring  a  few  of  them  back  into  the  Union. 

The  Federal  Government  could  not  tax  the  States  out  of 
existence  without  ending  its  own;  for  without  the  States 
to  support  it,  there  is  no  Union  to  be  supported.  To  destroy 
the  State  is  to  destroy  the  Republic.  The  point  is  not  well 
taken.  The  fear  is  wholly  groundless.  The  rights  of  the 
States  as  they  exist  to-day  will  not  be  impaired,  nor  will 
a  single  State  in  the  Union  suffer,  by  reason  of  the  amend- 
ment. But  with  the  amendment  ratified,  they  will  continue 
to  grow  richer  and  stronger,  enjoying  that  security  and 
independence   incident   to   their   membership   in   a   Union 


176  ARGUMENTATION 

clothed  with  Constitutional  powers  to  maintain  a  foremost 
position  among  the  world's  greatest  nations. 

The  Cause  of  Cleavage  in  Slates  ^ 

This  sandstone  rock  was  once  a  powder,  more  or  less 
coarse,  held  in  mechanical  suspension  by  water.  The  powder 
was  composed  of  two  distinct  parts,  fine  grains  of  sand 
and  small  plates  of  mica.  Imagine  a  wide  strand  covered 
by  a  tide,  or  an  estuary  with  water  which  holds  such 
powder  in  suspension:  how  will  it  sink?  The  rounded 
grains  of  sand  will  reach  the  bottom  first,  because  they 
encounter  the  least  resistance,  the  mica  afterwards,  and 
when  the  tide  recedes  we  have  the  little  plates  shining  like 
spangles  upon  the  surface  of  the  sand.  Each  successive  tide 
brings  its  charge  of  mixed  powder,  deposits  its  duplex  layer 
day  after  day,  and  finally  masses  of  immense  thickness  are 
piled  up,  which  by  preserving  the  alternations  of  sand 
and  mica  tell  the  tale  of  their  formation.  Take  the  sand 
and  mica,  mix  them  together  in  water,  and  allow  them  to 
subside;  they  will  arrange  themselves  in  the  manner  indi- 
cated, and  by  repeating  the  process  you  can  actually  build 
up  a  mass  which  shall  be  the  exact  counterpart  of  that 
presented  by  nature.  Now  this  structure  cleaves  with  readi- 
ness along  the  planes  in  which  the  particles  of  mica  are 
strewn.  Specimens  of  such  rock  sent  to  me  from  Halifax, 
and  other  masses  from  the  quarries  of  Over  Darwen  in  Lan- 
cashire, are  here  before  you.  With  a  hammer  and  chisel 
I  can  cleave  them  into  flags;  indeed  these  flags  are  em- 
ployed for  roofing  purposes  in  the  districts  from  which  the 
specimens  have  come,  and  receive  the  name  of  "  slatestone.*' 
But  you  will  discern  without  a  word  from  me,  that  this 
cleavage  is  not  a  crystalline  cleavage  any  more  than  that 
of  a  hayrick  is.    It  is  molar,  not  molecular. 

*  From  a  lecture  on  *'  Slates,"  by  John  Tyndall,  published  in 
Fragments  of  Science,  London,  1871. 


SPECIMENS  OF  ARGUMENTATION  177 

This,  so  far  as  I  am  aware  of,  has  never  been  imagined, 
and  it  has  been  agreed  among  geologists  not  to  call  such 
splitting  as  this  cleavage  at  all,  but  to  restrict  the  term 
to  a  phenomenon  of  a  totally  different  character. 

Those  who  have  visited  the  slate  quarries  of  Cumberland 
and  North  Wales  will  have  witnessed  the  phenomenon  to 
which  I  refer.  We  have  long  drawn  our  supply  of  roofing- 
slates  from  such  quarries;  schoolboys  ciphered  on  these 
slates,  they  were  used  for  tombstones  in  churchyards,  and  for 
billiard  balls  in  the  metropolis;  but  not  until  a  compara- 
tively late  period  did  men  begin  to  inquire  how  their  won- 
derful structure  was  produced.  What  is  the  agency  which 
enables  us  to  split  Honister  Crag,  or  the  cliffs  of  Snowdon, 
into  laminffi  from  crown  to  base?  This  question  is  at  the 
present  moment  one  of  the  great  difficulties  of  geologists 
and  occupies  their  attention  perhaps  more  than  any  other. 
You  may  wonder  at  this.  Looking  into  the  quarry  of 
Penrhyn,  you  may  be  disposed  to  offer  the  explanation  I 
heard  given  two  years  ago.  "  These  planes  of  cleavage," 
said  a  friend  who  stood  beside  me  on  the  quarry's  edge, 
"  are  the  planes  of  stratification  which  have  been  lifted  by 
some  convulsion  into  an  almost  vertical  position."  But 
this  was  a  mistake,  and  indeed  here  lies  the  grand  difficulty 
of  the  problem.  The  planes  of  cleavage  stand  in  most 
cases  at  a  high  angle  to  the  bedding.  Thanks  to  Sir  Rod- 
erick Murchison,  I  am  able  to  place  the  proof  of  this  be- 
fore you.  Here  is  a  specimen  of  slate  in  which  both  the 
planes  of  cleavage  and  of  bedding  are  distinctly  marked, 
one  of  them  making  a  large  angle  with  the  other.  This  is 
common.  The  cleavage  of  slates  then  is  not  a  question  of 
stratification;  what  then  is  its  cause? 

In  an  able  and  elaborate  essay  published  in  1835,  Prof. 
Sedgwick  proposed  the  theory  that  cleavage  is  due  to  the 
action  of  crystalline  or  polar  forces  subsequent  to  the 
consolidation  of  the  rock.    "  We  may  affirm,"  he  says,  "  that 


178  ARGUMENTATION 

no  retreat  of  tlie  parts,  no  contraction  of  dimensions  in 
passing  to  a  solid  state,  can  explain  such  phenomena.  They 
appear  to  me  only  resolvable  on  the  supposition  that  crys- 
talline or  polar  forces  acted  upon  the  whole  mass  simultane- 
ously in  one  direction  and  with  adequate  force."  And  again 
in  another  place :  "  Crystalline  forces  have  rearranged  whole 
mountain  masses,  producing  a  beautiful  crystalline  cleavage, 
passing  alike  through  all  the  strata."  The  utterance  of  such 
a  man  struck  deep,  as  it  ought  to  do,  into  the  minds  of 
geologists,  and  at  the  present  day  there  are  few  who  do 
not  entertain  this  view  either  in  whole  or  in  part.  The 
boldness  of  the  theory,  indeed,  has,  in  some  cases,  caused 
speculation  to  run  riot,  and  we  have  books  published  on 
the  action  of  polar  forces  and  geologic  magnetism,  which 
rather  astonish  those  who  know  something  about  the  sub- 
ject. According  to  this  theory  whole  districts  of  North 
Wales  and  Cumberland,  mountains  included,  are  neither 
more  nor  less  than  the  parts  of  a  gigantic  crystal.  These 
masses  of  slate  were  originally  fine  mud,  composed  of  the 
broken  and  abraded  particles  of  older  rocks.  They  contain 
silica,  alumina,  potash,  soda,  and  mica  mixed  mechanically 
together.  In  the  course  of  ages  the  mixture  became  con- 
solidated, and  the  theory  before  us  assumes  that  a  process 
of  crystallization  afterwards  rearranged  the  particles  and 
developed  in  it  a  single  plane  of  cleavage.  Though  a  bold, 
and  I  think  inadmissible,  stretch  of  analogies,  this  hypothe- 
sis has  done  good  service.  Right  or  wrong,  a  thoughtfully 
uttered  theory  has  a  dynamic  power  which  operates  against 
intellectual  stagnation;  and  even  by  provoking  opposition 
is  eventually  of  service  to  the  cause  of  truth.  It  would, 
however,  have  been  remarkable  if,  among  the  ranks  of  geolo- 
gists themselves,  men  were  not  found  to  seek  an  explana- 
tion of  slate-cleavage  involving  a  less  hardy  assumption. 

The  first  step  in  an  inquiry  of  this  kind  is  to  seek  the 
facts.     This    has   been    done,    and   the   labors    of   Daniel 


SPECIMENS  OF  ARGUMENTATION  179 

Sharpe  .  .  .,  Mr.  Henry  Clifton  Sorby,  and  others  have 
furnished  us  with  a  body  of  facts  associated  with  slaty 
cleavage,  and  having  a  most  important  bea,ring  upon  the 
question. 

Fossil  shells  are  found  in  these  slate-rocks.  I  have  here 
several  specimens  of  such  shells  in  the  actual  rock,  and 
occupying  various  positions  in  regard  to  the  cleavage  planes. 
They  are  squeezed,  distorted,  and  crushed;  in  all  cases  the 
distortion  leads  to  the  inference  that  the  rock  which  con- 
tains these  shells  has  been  subjected  to  enormous  pressure 
in  a  direction  at  right  angles  to  the  planes  of  cleavage. 
The  shells  are  all  flattened  and  spread  out  in  these  planes. 
Compare  this  fossil  trilobite  of  normal  proportions  with 
these  others  which  have  suffered  distortion.  Some  have 
lain  across,  some  along,  and  some  oblique  to  the  cleavage 
of  the  slate  in  which  they  are  found;  but  in  all  cases  the 
distortion  is  such  as  required  for  its  production  a  compress- 
ing force  acting  at  right  angles  to  the  planes  of  cleavage. 
As  the  trilobites  lay  in  the  mud,  the  jaws  of  a  gigantic  vice 
appear  to  have  closed  upon  them  and  squeezed  them  into 
the  shapes  you  see. 

We  sometimes  find  a  thin  layer  of  coarse  gritty  material, 
between  two  layers  of  finer  rock,  through  which  and  across 
the  gritty  layer  pass  the  planes  of  lamination.  The  coarse 
layer  is  found  bent  by  the  pressure  into  sinuosities  like  a 
contorted  ribbon.  Mr.  Sorby  has  described  a  striking  case 
of  this  kind.  This  crumpling  can  be  experimentally  imi- 
tated; the  amount  of  compression  might,  moreover,  be 
roughly  estimated  by  supposing  the  contorted  bed  to  be 
stretched  out,  its  length  measured  and  compared  with  the 
shorter  distance  into  which  it  has  been  squeezed.  We  find 
in  this  way  that  the  yielding  of  the  mass  has  been  con- 
siderable. 

Let  me  now  direct  your  attention  to  another  proof  of 
pressure;  you  see  the  varying  colors  which  indicate  the  bed- 


180  ARGUMENTATION 

ding  on  this  mass  of  slate.  The  dark  portion  is  gritty,  being 
composed  of  comparatively  coarse  particles,  which,  owing 
to  their  size,  shape,  and  gravity,  sink  first  and  constitute 
the  bottom  of  each  layer.  Gradually,  from  bottom  to  top 
the  coarseness  diminishes,  and  near  the  upper  surface  we 
have  a  layer  of  exceedingly  fine  mud.  .  .  .  The  mud  thus 
deposited  is,  as  might  be  expected,  often  rolled  up  into 
nodular  masses,  carried  forward,  and  deposited  among 
coarser  material  by  the  rivers  from  which  the  slate-mud  has 
subsided.  Here  are  such  nodules  inclosed  in  sandstone. 
Everybody,  moreover,  who  has  ciphered  upon  a  school-slate 
must  remember  the  whitish-green  spots  which  sometimes 
dotted  the  surface  of  the  slate,  and  over  which  the  pencil 
usually  slid  as  if  the  spots  were  greasy.  Now  these  spots 
are  composed  of  the  finer  mud,  and  they  could  not,  on 
account  of  their  fineness,  hite  the  pencil  like  the  surround- 
ing gritty  portions  of  the  slate.  Here  is  a  beautiful  ex- 
ample of  these  spots:  you  observe  them  on  the  cleavage 
surface  in  broad  round  patches.  But  turn  the  slate  edge- 
ways and  the  section  of  each  nodule  is  seen  to  be  a  sharp 
oval  with  its  longer  axis  parallel  to  the  cleavage.  .  .  . 

Let  me  now  remind  you  that  the  facts  brought  beford 
you  are  typical — each  is  the  representative  of  a  class.  We 
have  seen  shells  crushed;  the  unhappy  trilobites  squeezed, 
beds  contorted,  nodules  of  greenish  marl  flattened;  and  all 
these  sources  of  independent  testimony  point  to  one  and 
the  same  conclusion,  namely,  that  slate-rocks  have  been  sub- 
jected to  enormous  pressure  in  a  direction  at  right  angles 
to  the  planes  of  cleavage. 

Thus  we  have  established  the  concurrence  of  the  phe- 
nomena of  cleavage  and  pressure — that  they  accompany 
each  other;  but  the  question  still  remains.  Is  the  pressure 
sufficient  to  account  for  the  cleavage?  A  single  geologist, 
as  far  as  I  am  aware,  answers  boldly  in  the  affirmative. 


SPECIMENS  OF  ARGUMENTATION  181 

This  geologist  is  Sorby,  who  has  attacked  the  question  in 
the  true  spirit  of  a  physical  investigator.  Call  to  mind 
the  cleavage  of  the  flags  of  Halifax  and  Over  Darwen, 
which  is  caused  by  the  interposition  of  layers  of  mica  be- 
tween the  gritty  strata.  Mr.  Sorby  finds  plates  of  mica 
to  be  also  a  constituent  of  slate-rock.  He  asks  himself, 
what  will  be  the  effect  of  pressure  upon  a  mass  containing 
such  plates  confusedly  mixed  up  in  it?  It  will  be,  he 
argues,  and  he  argues  rightly,  to  place  the  plates  with 
their  flat  surfaces  more  or  less  perpendicular  to  the  direc- 
tion in  which  the  pressure  is  exerted.  He  takes  the  scales 
of  the  oxide  of  iron,  mixes  them  with  a  fine  powder,  and 
on  squeezing  the  mass  finds  that  the  tendency  of  the  scales 
is  to  set  themselves  at  right  angles  to  the  line  of  pressure. 
Along  the  planes  of  weakness  produced  by  the  scales  the 
mass  cleaves. 

By  tests  of  a  different  character  from  those  applied  by 
Mr.  Sorby,  it  might  be  shown  how  true  his  conclusion  is, 
that  the  effect  of  pressure  on  elongated  particles,  or  plates, 
will  be  such  as  he  describes  it.  But  while  the  scales  must 
be  regarded  as  a  true  cause,  I  should  not  ascribe  to  them 
a  large  share  in  the  production  of  the  cleavage.  I  believe 
that  even  if  the  plates  of  mica  were  wholly  absent  the 
cleavage  of  slate-rocks  would  be  much  the  same  as  it  is  at 
present. 

Here  is  a  mass  of  pure  white  wax:  it  contains  no  mica 
particles,  no  scales  of  iron,  or  anything  analogous  to 
them.  Here  is  the  selfsame  substance  submitted  to  pres- 
sure. I  would  invite  the  attention  of  eminent  geologists 
now  before  me  to  the  structure  of  this  wax.  No  slate  ever 
exhibited  so  clean  a  cleavage;  it  splits  into  laminsB  of  sur- 
passing tenuity,  and  proves  at  a  single  stroke  that  pressure 
is  sufficient  to  produce  cleavage,  and  that  this  cleavage  is 
independent  of  intermixed  plates  or  scales.  I  have  pur- 
posely mixed  this  wax  with  elongated  particles,  and  am 


182  ARGUMENTATION 

unable  to  say  at  the  present  moment  that  the  cleavage  is 
sensibly  affected  by  their  presence — if  anything,  I  should 
say  they  rather  impair  its  fineness  and  clearness  than  pro- 
mote it. 

The  finer  the  slate  is  the  more  perfect  will  be  the  re- 
semblance of  its  cleavage  to  that  of  the  wax.  Compare 
the  surface  of  the  wax  with  the  surface  of  this  slate  from 
Borrodale  in  Cumberland.  You  have  precisely  the  same 
features  in  both:  you  see  flakes  clinging  to  the  surfaces 
of  each,  which  have  been  partially  torn  away  in  cleaving. 
Let  any  observer  compare  these  two  effects,  he  will,  I  am 
persuaded,  be  led  to  the  conclusion  that  they  are  the  product 
of  a  common  cause. 

But  you  will  ask  me  how,  according  to  my  view,  does 
pressure  produce  this  remarkable  result.  This  may  be 
stated  in  a  very  few  words. 

There  is  no  such  thing  in  nature  as  a  body  of  perfectly 
homogeneous  structure.  I  break  this  clay  which  seems  so 
uniform,  and  find  that  the  fracture  presents  to  my  eyes 
innumerable  surfaces  along  which  it  has  given  way,  and 
it  has  yielded  along  those  surfaces  because  in  them  the 
cohesion  of  the  mass  is  less  than  elsewhere.  I  break  this 
marble,  and  even  this  wax,  and  observe  the  same  result; 
look  at  the  mud  at  the  bottom  of  a  dried  pond;  look  to 
some  of  the  ungraveled  walks  in  Kensington  Gardens  on 
drying  after  a  rain, — they  are  cracked  and  split,  and  other 
circumstances  being  equal,  they  crack  and  split  where  the 
cohesion  is  least.  Take  then  a  muss  of  partially  consoli- 
dated mud.  Such  a  mass  is  divided  and  subdivided  by 
interior  surfaces  along  which  the  cohesion  is  comparatively 
small.  Penetrate  the  mass  in  idea,  and  you  will  see  it 
composed  of  numberless  irregular  polyhedra  bounded  by 
surfaces  of  weak  cohesion.  Imagine  such  a  mass  subjected 
to  pressure, — it  yields  and  spreads  out  in  the  direction  of 
least  resistance;  the  little  polyhedra  become  converted  into 


SPECIMENS  OF  ARGUMENTATION  183 

laminae,  separated  from  each  other  by  surfaces  of  weak 
cohesion,  and  the  infallible  result  will  be  a  tendency  to 
cleave  at  right  angles  to  the  line  o:^  pressure. 

Further,  a  mass  of  dried  mud  is  full  of  cavities  and 
fissures.  If  you  break  dried  pipe-clay  you  see  them  in  great 
numbers,  and  there  are  multitudes  of  them  so  small  that  you 
cannot  see  them.  A  flattening  of  these  cavities  must  take 
place  in  squeezed  mud,  and  this  must  to  some  extent  facili- 
tate the  cleavage  of  the  mass  in  the  direction  indicated. 

Although  the  time  at  my  disposal  has  not  permitted  me 
duly  to  develop  these  thoughts,  yet  for  the  last  twelve 
months  the  subject  has  presented  itself  to  me  almost  daily 
under  one  aspect  or  another.  I  have  never  eaten  a  biscuit 
during  this  period  without  remarking  the  cleavage  devel- 
oped by  the  rolling-pin.  You  have  only  to  break  a  biscuit 
across,  and  to  look  at  the  fracture,  to  see  the  laminated 
structure.  We  have  here  the  means  of  pushing  the  analogy 
further.  I  invite  you  to  compare  the  structure  of  this  slate, 
which  was  subjected  to  a  high  temperature  during  the  con- 
flagration of  Mr.  Scott  Russell's  premises,  with  that  of 
a  biscuit.  Air  or  vapor  within  the  slate  has  caused  it  to 
swell,  and  the  mechanical  structure  it  reveals  is  precisely 
that  of  a  biscuit.  During  these  inquiries  I  have  received 
much  instruction  in  the  manufacture  of  puff-paste.  Here 
is  some  such  paste  baked  under  my  own  superintendence. 
The  cleavage  of  our  hills  is  accidental  cleavage,  but  this  is 
cleavage  with  intention.  The  volition  of  the  pastry-cook 
has  entered  into  its  formation.  It  has  been  his  aim  to  pre- 
serve a  series  of  surfaces  of  structural  weakness,  along  which 
the  dough  divides  into  layers.  Puff-paste  in  preparation 
must  not  be  handled  too  much;  it  ought,  moreover,  to  be 
rolled  on  a  cold  slab  to  prevent  the  butter  from  melting, 
and  diffusing  itself,  thus  rendering  the  paste  more  homo- 
geneous and  less  liable  to  split.  Puff-paste  is,  then,  simply 
an  exaggerated  case  of  slaty  cleavage. 


184  ARGUMENTATION 

The  principle  which  I  have  enunciated  is  so  simple  as  to 
be  almost  trivial;  nevertheless,  it  embraces  not  only  the 
cases  mentioned,  but,  if  time  permitted,  it  might  be  shown 
you  that  the  principle  has  a  much  wider  range  of  applica- 
tion. When  iron  is  taken  from  the  puddling  furnace  it  is 
more  or  less  spongy,  an  aggregate  in  fact  of  small  nodules: 
it  is  at  a  welding  heat,  and  at  this  temperature  is  submitted 
to  the  process  of  rolling.  Bright  smooth  bars  are  the  result. 
But  notwithstanding  the  high  heat  the  nodules  do  not  per- 
fectly blend  together.  The  process  of  rolling  draws  them 
into  fibers.  Here  is  a  mass  acted  upon  by  dilute  sulphuric 
acid,  which  exhibits  in  a  striking  manner  this  fibrous  struc- 
ture. The  experiment  was  made  by  my  friend  Dr.  Percy, 
without  any  reference  to  the  question  of  cleavage. 

Break  a  piece  of  ordinary  iron  and  you  have  a  granular 
fracture;  beat  the  iron,  you  elongate  these  granules,  and 
finally  render  the  mass  fibrous.  Here  are  pieces  of  rails 
along  which  the  wheels  of  locomotives  have  slidden;  the 
granules  have  yielded  and  become  plates.  They  exfoliate 
or  come  off  in  leaves;  all  these  effects  belong,  I  believe,  to 
the  grea*^  class  of  phenomena  of  which  slaty  cleavage  forms 
the  most  prominent  example. 


PART  III 

WEITING  WHICH  AIMS  TO  PLEASE 
I 

Writing  which  aims  to  touch  the  feelings  of  the 
reader  almost  always  takes  the  form  of  description 
or  narration.  This  does  not  mean  that  all  descrip- 
tive and  narrative  compositions  are  charged  with 
feeling;  it  simply  means  that  description  and  narra- 
tion, owing  to  their  pictorial  character,  may  more 
readily  be  used  to  stir  the  imagination  and  the  feel- 
ings than  any  other  form  of  writing. 

The  two  forms  are  closely  related  to  each  other. 
In  fact,  they  may  be  said  to  be  companion  forms; 
one  is  rarely  used  without  the  other.  Both  are 
markedly  different  in  mood  from  exposition  and 
argumentation.  In  the  latter,  the  writer's  concern  is 
with  truth,  which  he  follows  either  for  its  own  sake 
or  for  the  sake  of  its  effect  on  belief  or  action.  In 
description  and  narration,  on  the  contrary, — and  espe- 
cially in  description  and  narration  of  the  more  artistic 
kind, — ^the  writer  is  concerned  more  with  appearance 
than  with  truth.  Not  what  a  thing  is,  but  what  it 
seems  to  be;  not  what  are  the  motives  or  hidden 
springs  of  action,  but  how  the  actions  or  events  shape 
themselves, — these  are  the  questions  we  ask  ourselves 
in  writing  description  and  narration. 

185 


186        WRITING  WHICH  AIMS  TO  PLEASE 

The  cardinal  virtues  in  writing  whicli  appeals 
mainly  to  the  understanding  are,  of  course,  clearness 
and  accuracy.  In  writing  whose  chief  aim  is  to  give 
pleasure,  however,  these  virtues,  though  by  no  means 
to  be  neglected,  are  relatively  much  less  important. 
If  we  go  to  an  idle  tale  simply  for  amusement,  we 
may  care  very  little  whether  the  author  be  true  to 
fact  or  not;  if  the  tale  pleases,  that,  we  may  say,  is 
enough.  So,  too,  it  is  with  regard  to  force.  A  certain 
degree  of  forcefulness  is  necessary  in  all  writing,  in 
order  that  the  attention  of  the  reader  may  be  held ;  and 
such  a  degree  of  forcefulness  may  be  said  to  be  pleas- 
ing; but  carried  very  much  beyond  that  point,  force 
may  at  times  become  positively  disagreeable.  In  short, 
in  writing  that  pleases,  while  we  must  have  the  funda- 
mental qualities  of  style — clearness,  accuracy,  force — 
present  in  some  degree,  we  must  have  a  certain  some- 
thing in  addition, — a  something  which  has  been  vari- 
ously called  ease,  elegance,  grace,  or  charm.  Perhaps 
a  better  word  for  it  would  be  simply  expressiveness, 
since  it  sometimes  happens  that  writings  which  are 
distinctly  without  what  may  properly  be  called  ele- 
gance or  grace  have  the  power  to  attract  and  delight 
us.  Expressiveness  is  thus  a  certain  quality  which 
some  writings  have  which  enables  them  to  attract  us, 
enkindle  our  feelings,  and  hold  us  willing  captives 
to  their  spell. 

This  quality  of  expressiveness,  charm,  grace,  or 
whatever  we  are  pleased  to  call  it,  is  mainly,  now,  a 
matter  of  the  apt  choice  of  words  and  of  phrasing. 
When  we  write  with  a  view  to  pleasing  our  readers, 
we  choose,  so  far  as  is  possible,  words  which  are  likely 


WRITING  WHICH  AIMS  TO  PLEASE        187 

to  have  interesting  or  agreeable  suggestions  for  them, 
as  well  as  exact  meanings;  and  we  try,  moreover, 
to  arrange  these  words  attractively.  Many  words 
have  what  we  may  call  a  flavor  or  set  of  associations 
which  distinguishes  them  from  all  other  words  of 
similar  meaning,  and  it  is  this  set  of  associations  which 
enables  them  to  mean  so  very  much  more  than  their 
denotation  or  exact  significance  would  warrant.  The 
writer  who  is  an  artist  is  aware  of  this  fact,  and 
always  takes  into  account  the  connotation  or  sugges- 
tiveness  of  the  words  he  uses.  The  words  which  call 
up  just  the  right  associated  ideas  to  reinforce  and 
render  agreeable  the  main  ideas  which  the  writer 
wishes  to  convey  are  the  expressive  words,  the  words 
to  use  in  writing  having  an  artistic  aim.  For  the 
most  part,  these  will  be  found  to  be  the  familiar, 
rather  than  the  learned;  the  specific,  rather  than  the 
general ;  the  figurative,  rather  than  the  literal. 

As  to  phrasing,  the  young  writer  never  gets  very 
far  before  learning  that  the  influence  of  word  upon 
word  is  a  fact  that  must  be  reckoned  with.  A  writer 
cannot  throw  his  words  together  without  regard  to 
euphony  or  eongruity  and  expect  them  to  furnish  very 
agreeable  reading.  If  he  expects  them  to  please,  he 
must  adapt  them  to  one  another.  He  must  see  that,  in 
the  matter  of  their  connotation,  they  sort  well  to- 
gether,— that  is,  that  they  do  not  call  up  associated 
ideas  of  an  utterly  incongruous  or  contradictory  char- 
acter ;  and  he  must  also  see  that  they  do  not  make  dis- 
cordant or  harsh-sounding  combinations.  Discourse, 
whether  written  or  oral,  is  in  reality  always  addressed 
to  the  ear.    It  behooves  a  writer,  therefore,  to  consider 


188        WRITING  WHICH  AIMS  TO  PLEASE 

what  combinations  of  words  are  likely  to  prove  dis- 
agreeable, and  to  avoid  them. 

Sentences  like  the  following,  for  example,  could  not 
have  been  written  by  any  one  who  had  a  proper  sense 
of  the  value  of  euphony  and  congruity  in  phrasing : 

Her  pride  is  here  thrown  aside  and  the  humorous  side 
of  her  character  revealed. 

His  name  has  been  carved  in  golden  characters  upon  the 
corridors  of  time,  and  its  never-fading  letters  will  herald 
the  message  of  his  greatness  to  the  ears  of  the  generations 
to  come. 


In  the  first  sentence,  the  quick  repetition  of  the 
'^i"  sound  in  '' pride,  ^'  *^  aside,''  and  ''side'' 
offends  the  ear ;  and  in  the  second,  the  idea  of  letters, 
which  can  appeal  only  to  the  sense  of  sight,  conveying 
anything  to  the  ears  strikes  the  reader  at  once  as 
absurd. 

The  avoidance  of  what  is  disagreeable  is,  to  be  sure, 
only  a  negative  virtue;  but  it  is  a  virtue  which  the 
beginner  ought  by  no  means  to  despise.  From  know- 
ing how  to  avoid  the  disagreeable,  he  may,  in  time, 
come  to  know  how  to  secure  the  positively  pleasing. 
No  writer,  however,  can  hope  to  attain  a  pleasing  style 
unless  he  has  a  tolerably  good  ear  for  the  music  of 
language. 

In  general,  it  may  be  said  that  a  harmonious  style 
is  the  result,  largely,  of  a  free  use  of  the  more  euphoni- 
ous consonantal  sounds — such  as  those  of  the  liquids 
1  and  m,  and  the  labials  b,  p,  f,  and  v — ^and  of  a 
skilful  variation  of  the  stressed  vowel  sounds.    AUiter- 


WRITING  WHICH  AIMS  TO  PLEASE         189 

ation,  or  the  repetition  of  the  same  consonantal  sounds, 
provided  it  is  not  carried  so  far  as  to  obtrude  itself 
on  the  reader 's  attention,  also  aids  in  giving  a  pleasing 
effect  to  prose  style.  To  quote  Stevenson's  apt  re- 
marks on  this  point: 

The  beauty  of  the  contents  of  a  phrase,  or  of  a  sentence, 
depends  implicitly  upon  alliteration  and  upon  assonance. 
The  vowel  demands  to  be  repeated;  the  consonant  demands 
to  be  repeated ;  and  both  cry  aloud  to  be  perpetually  varied. 
You  may  follow  the  adventures  of  a  letter  through  any 
passage  that  has  particularly  pleased  you;  find  it,  perhaps, 
denied  awhile,  to  tantalize  the  ear;  find  it  fired  again  at 
you  in  a  whole  broadside;  or  find  it  pass  into  congenerous 
sounds,  one  liquid  or  labial  melting  away  into  another.^ 

Notice,  for  example,  the  frequent  recurrence  of  the 
sounds,  p,  b,  and  f  in  the  following  passage  from 
Ruskin : 

1/  I  were  to  put  a  turnpike  on  the  road  where  it  passes 
my  own  gate,  and  endeavor  to  exact  a  shilling  from  every 
passenger,  the  pub  he  would  soon  do  away  with  my  gate, 
without  listening  to  any  plea  on  my  part  that  "it  was  as 
advantageous  to  them,  in  the  end,  that  I  should  spend  their 
shillings,  as  that  they  themselves  should."  But  if,  instead 
of  out/acing  them  with  a  turnpike,  I  can  only  persuade 
them  to  come  in  and  buy  stones,  or  old  iron,  or  any  such 
useless  thing,  out  of  my  ground,  I  may  ro&  them  to  the 
same  extent,  and  be,  moreover,  thanked  as  a  public  bene- 
/actor,  and  promoter  of  commercial  prosperity.' 

Notice,  also,  in  the  following  passage  from  DeQuin- 
cey,  the  lavish  use  of  liquids  and  labials,  the  variety 

^  See  Stevenson's  Style  in  Literature. 

2  See  the  Introduction  to  The  Crown  of  Wild  Olive, 


190         WRITING  WHICH  AIMS  TO  PLEASE 

in  the  vowel  sounds,  the  skilfully  concealed  allitera- 
tion, and  the  exquisite  cadence  of  the  sentences: 

Her  eyes  are  sweet  and  subtle,  wild  and  sleepy,  by  turns; 
oftentimes  rising  to  the  clouds,  oftentimes  challenging  the 
heavens.  She  wears  a  diadem  round  her  head.  And  I  knew 
by  childish  memories  that  she  could  go  abroad  upon  the 
winds,  when  she  heard  the  sobbing  of  litanies  or  the  thun- 
dering of  organs,  and  when  she  beheld  the  mustering  of 
summer  clouds.  This  sister,  the  eldest,  it  is  that  carries  keys 
more  than  papal  at  her  girdle,  which  open  every  cottage 
and  every  palace.  She,  to  my  knowledge,  sat  all  last  sum- 
mer by  the  bedside  of  the  blind  beggar,  him  that  so  often 
and  so  gladly  I  talked  with,  whose  pious  daughter,  eight 
years  old,  with  the  sunny  countenance,  resisted  the  tempta- 
tions of  play  and  village  mirth  to  travel  all  day  long  on 
dusty  roads  with  her  afflicted  father.  For  this  did  God  send 
her  a  great  reward.  In  the  spring-time  of  the  year,  and 
whilst  her  own  Spring  was  budding,  He  recalled  her  to  Him- 
self. But  her  blind  father  mourns  for  ever  over  her;  still 
he  dreams  at  midnight  that  the  little  guiding  hand  is  locked 
within  his  own;  and  still  he  wakens  to  a  darkness  that  is 
now  within  a  second  and  a  deeper  darkness.^ 

^  From  Levana  and  Our  Ladies  of  Sorrow. 


n 

DESCRIPTION 

1.  NATURE  AND  PURPOSE  OF  DESCRIPTIVE  WRITING 

Description  may  be  defined  simply  as  the  portrayal 
of  things  by  means  of  language.  It  is  that  kind  of 
writing  which  aims  to  give  the  reader  an  idea  of  the 
appearance  of  things.  It  deals,  therefore,  with  things 
as  they  appeal  to  the  senses  or  to  the  imagination. 

Ordinarily  when  we  speak  of  description  we  have 
in  mind  the  portrayal  of  physical  things,  whether  real 
or  imaginary, — that  is,  persons,  buildings,  landscapes, 
and  the  like;  but  the  term  is  also  applied  to  the  de- 
lineation of  characters,  mental  states,  and  things  of  a 
like  immaterial  nature.  Thus  the  second  of  the  two 
following  passages  is  no  less  a  description  than  the 
first: 

On  three  sides  of  Edinburgh,  the  country  slopes  down- 
ward from  the  city,  here  to  the  sea,  there  to  the  fat  farms 
of  Haddington,  there  to  the  mineral  fields  of  Linlithgow. 
On  the  south  alone,  it  keeps  rising  until  it  not  only  out- 
tops  the  Castle  but  looks  down  on  Arthur's  Seat.  The 
character  of  the  neighborhood  is  pretty  strongly  marked 
by  a  scarcity  of  hedges;  by  many  stone  walls  of  varying 
height;  by  a  fair  amount  of  timber,  some  of  it  well  grown, 
but  apt  to  be  of  a  bushy,  northern  profile  and  poor  in 
foliage;  by  here  and  there  a  little  river,  Esk  or  Leith  or 

191 


192  DESCRIPTION 

Almond,  busily  journeying  to  the  bottom  of  its  glen;  and 
from  almost  every  point  by  a  peep  of  the  sea  or  the  hills. 
There  is  no  lack  of  variety,  and  yet  most  of  the  elements 
are  common  to  all  parts;  and  the  southern  district  is  alone 
distinguished  by  considerable  summits  and  a  wide  view.^ 

Dorothea  by  this  time  had  turned  cold  again,  and  now 
threw  herself  back  helplessly  in  her  chair.  She  might  have 
compared  her  experience  at  that  moment  to  the  vague, 
alarmed  consciousness  that  her  life  was  taking  on  a  new 
form,  that  she  was  undergoing  a  metamorphosis  in  which 
memory  would  not  adjust  itself  to  the  stirring  of  new 
organs.  Everything  was  changed  in  its  aspect:  her  hus- 
band's conduct,  her  own  duteous  feeling  towards  him,  every 
struggle  between  them — and  yet  more,  her  whole  relation 
to  Will  Ladislaw.  Her  world  was  in  a  state  of  convulsive 
change;  the  only  thing  she  could  say  distinctly  to  herself 
was,  that  she  must  wait  and  think  anew.  One  change  terri- 
fied her  as  if  it  had  been  a  sin;  it  was  a  violent  shock  of 
repulsion  from  her  departed  husband,  who  had  had  hidden 
thoughts,  perhaps  perverting  everything  she  said  and  did. 
Then  again  she  was  conscious  of  another  change  which  also 
made  her  tremulous;  it  was  a  sudden  yearning  of  heart 
towards  Will  Ladislaw.  It  had  never  before  entered  her 
mind  that  he  could,  under  any  circumstances,  be  her  lover: 
conceive  the  effect  of  the  sudden  revelation  that  another 
had  thought  of  him  in  that  light — that  perhaps  he  himself 
had  been  conscious  of  such  a  possibility, — and  this  with 
the  hurrying,  crowding  vision  of  unfitting  conditions,  and 
questions  not  to  be  solved.^ 

Description  is  an  extremely  common  form  of  writ- 
ing, though  it  is  seldom  used  alone.     In  books  of 

*  From  Stevenson's  Edinburgh. 

» From  George  Eliot's  Middlemarch. 


NATURE  AND  PURPOSE  193 

travel — books  which  aim,  as  a  rule,  to  give  an  im- 
pression of  things  seen — we  may  sometimes  find  ex- 
amples of  almost  pure  description;  but  even  in  such 
books  there  is,  usually,  a  thread  of  story  mingled 
with  the  description.  Description  and  narration  are, 
in  fact,  so  closely  related  in  aim  and  so  helpful  to 
each  other  that  they  are  almost  always  used  together. 
Description  furnishes  the  setting  for  narration,  with- 
out which  it  would  be  but  a  bare  record  of  events; 
narration,  in  its  turn,  gives  life  and  activity  to  de- 
scription, without  which  it  would  soon  become  weari- 
some. 

It  is  worth  while,  perhaps,  to  remind  the  beginner 
here  that  description  of  the  kind  we  have  been  talking 
about  must  not  be  confused  with  scientific  or  exposi- 
tory description.  In  the  latter,  the  aim  is  to  give  in- 
formation not  to  portray.  Description  proper,  how- 
ever, is  pictorial.  To  a  certain  extent,  the  writer 
here  seeks  to  produce  by  means  of  words  what  the 
painter  produces  by  means  of  lines  and  colors — an 
illusion.  That  is,  he  seeks  to  conjure  up  in  the  mind 
of  the  reader  an  image  of  the  thing  described.  Hence 
his  appeal  is  to  the  imagination  rather  than  to  the 
understanding. 

In  the  following  passage,  for  example,  the  purpose 
of  the  writer  is  obviously  pictorial;  that  is,  he  aims 
to  stimulate  the  imagination  of  the  reader  in  such 
a  way  as  to  enable  him  to  form  a  mental  picture 
of  the  scene  described: 


Immediately  underneath  upon  the  south,  you  command 
the  yards  of  the  High  School,  and  the  towers  and  courts  of 


194  DESCRIPTION 

the  new  jail — a  large  place,  castellated  to  the  extent  of 
folly,  standing  by  itself  on  the  edge  of  a  steep  cliff,  and 
often  joyfully  hailed  by  tourists  as  the  Castle.  In  the 
one,  you  may  perhaps  see  female  prisoners  taking  exercise 
like  a  string  of  nuns;  in  the  other,  schoolboys  running  at 
play  and  their  shadows  keeping  step  with  them.  From 
the  bottom  of  the  valley,  a  gigantic  chimney  rises  almost 
to  the  level  of  the  eye,  a  taller  and  shapelier  edifice  than 
Nelson's  Monument.  Look  a  little  further,  and  there  is 
Holyrood  Palace,  with  its  Gothic  frontal  and  ruined  abbey, 
and  the  red  sentry  pacing  smartly  to  and  fro  before  the 
door  like  a  mechanical  figure  in  a  panorama.  By  way  of 
an  outpost,  you  can  single  out  the  little  peak-roofed  lodge, 
over  which  Rizzio's  murderers  made  their  escape  and  where 
Queen  Mary  herself,  according  to  gossip,  bathed  in  white 
wine  to  entertain  her  liveliness.  Behind  and  overhead,  lie 
the  Queen's  Park,  from  Muschat's  Cairn  to  Dumbiedykes, 
St.  Margaret's  Loch,  and  the  long  wall  of  Salisbury  Crags; 
and  thence,  by  knoll  and  rocky  bulwark  and  precipitous 
slope,  the  eye  rises  to  the  top  of  Arthur's  Seat,  a  hill 
for  magnitude,  a  mountain  in  virtue  of  its  bold  design. 
This  upon  your  left.  Upon  the  right,  the  roofs  and  spires 
of  the  Old  Town  climb  one  above  another  to  where  the 
citadel  prints  its  broad  bulk  and  jagged  crown  of  bastions 
on  the  western  sky. — Perhaps  it  is  now  one  in  the  after- 
noon; and  at  the  same  instant  of  time,  a  ball  rises  to  the 
summit  of  Nelson's  flagstaff  close  at  hand,  and,  far  away, 
a  puff  of  smoke  followed  by  a  report  bursts  from  the  half- 
moon  battery  at  the  Castle.  This  is  the  time-gun  by  which 
people  set  their  watches,  as  far  as  the  seacoast  or  in  hill 
farms  upon  the  Pentlands. — To  complete  the  view,  the  eye 
enfilades  Princes  Street,  black  with  traffic,  and  has  a  broad 
look  over  the  valley  between  the  Old  Town  and  the  New; 
here,  full  of  railway  trains  and  stepped  over  by  the  high 


NATURE  AND  PURPOSE  195 

North  Bridge  upon  its  many  columns,  and  there,  green  with 
trees  and  gardens.^ 

Description  is  thus  a  kind  of  portrayal.  To  a  cer- 
tain extent,  as  has  been  said,  it  aims  to  do  what 
the  painting  does — ^produce  in  the  mind  an  image 
of  the  thing  represented,  but  to  a  certain  extent  only. 
Description  does  not  seek  to  rival  painting,  to  meet 
it  on  its  own  ground,  so  to  speak.  It  would  be  im- 
possible for  the  writer  to  produce  precisely  the  same 
effect  as  the  painter,  even  were  he  to  try.  The  latter 
appeals  to  the  imagination  through  the  bodily  eye, 
and  presents  a  picture  which  can  be  grasped  in  its 
totality  in  a  single  moment  of  time.  In  this  picture, 
there  can  be  no  progression  in  time,  for  it  represents 
the  artist's  impression  of  the  object  at  a  given  mo- 
ment. The  writer,  on  the  other  hand,  appeals  to  the 
mind's  eye  only,  and  that  through  the  medium  of 
words,  which,  from  their  very  nature,  require  an 
appreciable  space  of  time  to  be  taken  in  and  fitted 
together.  Hence  a  portrayal  in  words  can  never 
represent  any  precise  impression  of  an  object,  for  it 
cannot  be  rendered  in  a  single  moment  of  time.  The 
most  that  it  can  do  is  to  suggest  an  impression,  and 
leave  to  the  imagination  of  the  reader  the  definite 
form  which  that  impression  shall  take.  The  writer, 
therefore,  seldom  tries  to  reproduce  any  one  fixed 
impression,  but  dwells  now  on  this,  now  on  that  aspect 
of  the  thing  described,  and  so  strings  together  a  series 
of  impressions,  in  which,  besides  suggestions  of  form 
and  color,  there  may  be  other  suggestions  entirely 

*  From  Stevenson's  Edinburgh, 


196  DESCRIPTION 

foreign  to  the  art  of  the  painter,  such  as  those  of 
sounds  and  odors. 


2.   METHODS  OF   ATTAINING  EFFECTIVENESS   IN   DESCRIP- 
TION 

Though  the  writer  is  thus  precluded  from  repre- 
senting impressions  with  the  definiteness  and  distinct- 
ness of  painting  or  drawing,  he  should  endeavor  to 
give  his  descriptions  as  much  distinctness  as  possible. 
The  reader's  imagination  must  be  stimulated  so  that 
some  kind  of  a  mental  picture  be  formed,  some  kind 
of  unification  of  the  details  mentioned  may  be  made. 
The  best  way  for  the  writer  to  do  this  is  to  get,  in 
the  first  place,  a  comprehensive  grasp  of  the  thing 
to  be  described ;  then  to  select  and  arrange,  according 
to  some  natural  or  obvious  plan,  the  details  most 
suggestive  of  the  effect  he  wishes  to  produce;  and, 
lastly,  to  choose  his  words  with  an  eye  to  their 
picturesqueness  or  vividness.  Comprehensiveness  of 
grasp,  suggestiveness  in  the  selection  and  arrange- 
ment of  details,  and  vividness  in  the  choice  of  words, — 
these  are  the  clues  to  effectiveness  in  description. 

The  comprehensive  grasp  which  the  good  descriptive 
writer  has  of  the  object  he  is  describing  will  manifest 
itself  in  the  general  outline  of  the  description.  This 
will  vary,  of  course,  according  to  the  nature  of  the 
object  described.  In  descriptions  of  landscapes,  for 
example,  the  general  outline  of  the  object  is  often 
indicated  in  a  rapid  preliminary  sketch,  the  details 
of  which  are  to  be  filled  in  later.  Sometimes  this 
sketch  takes  the  form  of  a  comparison  of  the  general 


METHODS  OF  ATTAINING  EFFECTIVENESS    197 

outline  of  the  object  with  that  of  some  well-known 
figure,  as  in  Thoreau's  description  of  Cape  Cod: 

Cape  Cod  is  the  bared  and  bended  arm  of  Massachusetts ! 
the  shoulder  is  at  Buzzard's  Bay;  the  elbow,  or  crazy-bone, 
at  Cape  Mallebarre;  the  wrist  at  Truro  j  and  the  sandy  fist 
at  Provincetown, — ^behind  which  the  State  stands  on  her 
guard,  with  her  back  to  the  Green  Mountains,  and  her  feet 
planted  on  the  floor  of  the  ocean,  like  an  athlete  protecting 
her  Bay, — boxing  with  northeast  storms,  and,  ever  and  anon, 
heaving  up  her  Atlantic  adversary  from  the  lap  of  earth, — 
ready  to  thrust  forward  her  other  fist,  which  keeps  guard 
the  while  upon  her  breast  at  Cape  Ann.^ 


A  similar  comparison  is  that  used  in  Stevenson's 
description  of  the  Bay  of  Monterey: 

The  Bay  of  Monterey  has  been  compared  by  no  less  a 
person  than  General  Sherman  to  a  bent  fishing-hook;  and 
the  comparison,  if  less  important  than  the  march  through 
Georgia,  still  shows  the  eye  of  a  soldier  for  topography. 
Santa  Cruz  sits  exposed  at  the  shank;  the  mouth  of  the 
Salinas  river  is  at  the  middle  of  the  bend;  and  Monterey 
itself  is  cozily  ensconced  beside  the  barb.  Thus  the  ancient 
capital  of  California  faces  across  the  bay,  while  the  Pacific 
Ocean,  though  hidden  by  low  hills  and  forest,  bombards 
her  left  flank  and  rear  with  never-dying  surf.  In  front 
of  the  town,  the  long  line  of  sea-beach  trends  north  and 
northwest,  and  then  westward  to  inclose  the  bay." 

Another  way  of  stimulating  the  reader's  imagina- 
tion to  form  a  picture  of  the  whole  is  to  give,  first, 

»  From  Thoreau's  Cape  Cod, 
^  From  Across  the  Plains, 


198  DESCRIPTION 

the  general  impression  or  effect  of  the  whole,  and  then 
to  follow  this  up  with  the  mention  of  appropriate 
details,  especially  those  which  contribute  mainly  to- 
ward producing  that  effect.  A  striking  example  of 
this  method  is  seen  in  the  description  of  the  Grand 
Canon  of  the  Colorado  given  below.  When  this 
method  is  carried  to  the  extreme  of  suppressing  the 
details  altogether,  or  of  almost  suppressing  them,  we 
have  what  may  aptly  be  called  indirect  description, 
as  in  the  following,  for  example : 

At  the  beginning,  while  gazing  south,  east,  west,  to  the 
rim  of  the  world,  all  laughed,  shouted,  interchanged  the 
quick  delight  of  new  impressions!  every  face  was  radiant. 
Now  all  look  serious; — none  speak.  The  first  physical  joy 
of  finding  oneself  on  this  point  in  violet  air,  exalted  above 
the  hills,  soon  yields  to  other  emotions  inspired  by  the 
mighty  vision  and  the  colossal  peace  of  the  heights.  Dom- 
inating all,  I  think,  is  the  consciousness  of  the  awful  an- 
tiquity of  what  one  is  looking  upon; — such  a  sensation, 
perhaps,  as  of  old  found  utterance  in  that  tremendous 
question  of  the  Book  of  Job ! — "  Wast  thou  brought  forth 
before  the  hills?  "  And  the  blue  multitude  of  the  peaks,  the 
perpetual  congregation  of  the  morns,  seem  to  chorus  in  the 
vast  resplendence, — telling  of  Nature's  eternal  youth,  and 
the  passionless  permanence  of  that  about  us  and  beyond  us 
and  beneath, — until  something  Uke  the  fullness  of  a  great 
grief  begins  to  weigh  at  the  heart.  For  all  this  astonish- 
ment of  beauty,  all  this  majesty  of  light  and  form  and 
color,  will  surely  endure, — marvellous  as  now, — after  we 
shall  have  lain  down  to  sleep  where  no  dreams  come,  and 
may  never  arise  from  the  dust  of  our  rest  to  look  upon  it.^ 

*View  from  the  summit  of  Mont  Pel6e;  Lafcadio  Hearn, 
Two  Years  in  the  French  West  Indies. 


METHODS  OF  ATTAINING  EFFECTIVENESS     199 

With  regard  to  the  selection  and  arrangement  of 
the  details  in  a  description,  care  must  be  taken,  in 
the  first  place,  that  only  those  which  are  most  prom- 
inent or  striking  be  chosen.  These  are  what  we  may 
term  the  suggestive  details,  the  details  that  best  stim- 
ulate the  reader's  mind  to  form  the  desired  image. 
Moreover,  only  so  many  details  as  are  necessary 
should  be  used,  and  no  more.  Superfluous  details 
have  a  confusing  effect ;  they  tend  to  blur  the  reader 's 
mental  picture,  and  distinctness  of  impression  is  al- 
most the  first  consideration  in  description.  As  to  the 
arrangement  of  these  details,  the  method  is  that  of 
simple  enumeration  according  to  some  suitable  plan. 
Mere  enumeration  without  plan  will  not,  of  course, 
serve  the  writer's  purpose.  The  details  must  be 
arranged  with  as  much  regard  as  possible  to  the  aid 
they  give  one  another  in  their  image  or  picture  sug- 
gesting capacity.  Bad  arrangement  will  spoil  the 
effect  of  the  most  admirably  chosen  details. 

As  to  what  details  are  most  striking  and  what 
arrangement  is  likely  to  be  most  effective,  the  writer 
can  best  judge  if  he  keeps  always  in  mind  the  point 
of  view  from  which  he  observes  the  thing  to  be  de- 
scribed. That  point  of  view  must,  of  course,  be  defi- 
nite, else  the  writer's  own  impression  will  be  vague 
and  his  chances  of  producing  a  vivid  impression  on 
the  mind  of  the  reader  correspondingly  slim.  No 
one  can  make  another  see  clearly  what  he  does  not 
see  clearly  himself.  If,  for  instance,  the  writer  wishes 
to  describe  a  bit  of  scenery,  he  must  first  get  a  clear 
image  of  it  in  his  own  mind,  which  can  be  done  only 
by  viewing  it,  in  reality  or  in  imagination,  from  some 


200  DESCRIPTION 

point  in  the  foreground.  Viewed  from  this  point, 
certain  features  of  the  scene  will  stand  out  more 
prominently  than  others  and  will  relate  themselves 
in  a  particular  way.  These  features  are  the  sugges- 
tive ones,  and  this  particular  relation  the  one  that 
the  writer  should  seek  to  reproduce. 

Note  the  distinctness  of  this  sketch  from  Stevenson  *s 
Edinburgh,  a  distinctness  attained  by  fixing  the  point 
of  view  and  by  attending  carefully  to  the  perspective : 

Kirk  Yetton  forms  the  northeastern  angle  of  the  range; 
thence,  the  Pentlands  trend  off  to  south  and  west.  From 
the  summit  you  look  over  a  great  expanse  of  champaign 
sloping  to  the  sea  and  behold  a  large  variety  of  distant 
hills.  There  are  the  hills  of  Fife,  the  hills  of  Peebles,  the 
Lammermoors  and  the  Ochils,  more  or  less  mountainous  in 
outline,  more  or  less  blue  with  distance.  Of  the  Pentlands 
themselves,  you  see  a  field  of  wild  heathery  peaks  with  a 
pond  gleaming  in  the  midst;  and  to  that  side  the  view  is  as 
desolate  as  if  you  were  looking  into  Galloway  or  Apple- 
cross.  To  turn  to  the  other,  is  like  a  piece  of  travel.  Far 
out  in  the  lowlands  Edinburgh  shows  herself,  making  a 
great  smoke  on  clear  days  and  spreading  her  suburbs  about 
her  for  miles;  the  Castle  rises  darkly  in  the  midst;  and 
close  by,  Arthur's  Seat  makes  a  bold  figure  in  the  landscape. 
All  around,  cultivated  fields,  and  woods,  and  smoking  vil- 
lages, and  white  country  roads,  diversify  the  uneven  surface 
of  the  land.  Trains  crawl  slowly  abroad  upon  the  railway 
lines;  little  ships  are  tacking  in  the  Firth;  the  shadow  of  a 
mountainous  cloud,  as  large  as  a  parish,  travels  before  the 
wind;  the  wind  itself  ruffles  the  wood  and  standing  corn, 
and  sends  pulses  of  varying  color  across  the  landscape. 
So  you  sit,  like  Jupiter  upon  Olympus,  and  look  down 
from  afar  upon  men's  life.    The  city  is  as  silent  as  a  city  of 


METHODS  OF  ATTAINING  EFFECTIVENESS    201 

the  dead:  from  all  its  humming  thoroughfares,  not  a  voice, 
not  a  footfall,  reaches  you  upon  the  hill.  The  sea  surf,  the 
cries  of  ploughmen,  the  streams  and  the  mill-wheels,  the 
birds  and  the  wind,  keep  up  an  animated  concert  through 
the  plain;  from  farm  to  farm,  dogs  and  crowing  cocks 
contend  together  in  defiance;  and  yet  from  this  Olympian 
station,  except  for  the  whispering  rumor  of  a  train,  the 
world  has  fallen  into  a  dead  silence  and  the  business  of 
town  and  country  grown  voiceless  in  your  ears.  A  crying 
hill-bird,  the  bleat  of  a  sheep,  a  wind  singing  in  the  dry 
grass,  seem  not  so  much  to  interrupt,  as  to  accompany,  the 
stillness;  but  to  the  spiritual  ear,  the  whole  scene  makes 
a  music  at  once  human  and  rural,  and  discourses  pleasant 
reflections  on  the  destiny  of  man.  The  spiry  habitable  city, 
ships,  the  divided  fields,  and  browsing  herds,  and  the  straight 
highways,  tell  visibly  of  man^s  active  and  comfortable  ways ; 
and  you  may  be  never  so  laggard  and  never  so  unim- 
pressionable, but  there  is  something  in  the  view  that  spirits 
up  your  blood  and  puts  you  in  the  vein  for  cheerful  labor. 

The  same  careful  attention  to  point  of  view  and 
grouping  of  details  is  observable  in  the  following 
sketch  of  an  interior: 

The  sun,  meanwhile,  if  not  already  above  the  horizon, 
was  ascending  nearer  and  nearer  to  its  verge.  A  few  clouds, 
floating  high  upward,  caught  some  of  the  earliest  light, 
and  threw  down  its  golden  gleam  on  the  windows  of  all 
the  houses  in  the  street,  not  forgetting  the  House  of  the 
Seven  Gables,  which — many  such  sunrises  as  it  had  wit- 
nessed— looked  cheerfully  at  the  present  one.  The  reflected 
radiance  served  to  show,  pretty  distinctly,  the  aspect  and 
arrangement  of  the  room  which  Hepzibah  entered,  after 
descending  the  stairs.  It  was  a  low-studded  room,  with  a 
beam  across  the  ceiling,  paneled  with  dark  wood,  and  hav- 
ing a  large  chimney-piece,  set  around  with  pictured  tiles, 


202  DESCRIPTION 

but  now  closed  by  an  iron  fireboard,  through  which  ran  the 
funnel  of  a  modern  stove.  There  was  a  carpet  on  the 
floor,  originally  of  rich  texture,  but  so  worn  and  faded, 
in  these  latter  years,  that  its  once  brilliant  figure  had  quite 
vanished  into  one  indistinguishable  hue.  In  the  way  of 
furniture,  there  were  two  tables :  one,  constructed  with  per- 
plexing intricacy  and  exhibiting  as  many  feet  as  a  centipede ; 
the  other,  most  delicately  wrought,  with  four  long  and 
slender  legs,  so  apparently  frail  that  it  was  almost  incred- 
ible what  a  length  of  time  the  ancient  tea-table  had  stood 
upon  them.  Half  a  dozen  chairs  stood  about  the  room, 
straight  and  stiff,  and  so  ingeniously  contrived  for  the  dis- 
comfort of  the  human  person  that  they  were  irksome  even 
to  sight,  and  conveyed  the  ugliest  possible  idea  of  the  state 
of  society  to  which  they  could  have  been  adapted.  One 
exception  there  was,  however,  in  a  very  antique  elbow-chair, 
with  a  high  back,  carved  elaborately  in  oak,  and  a  roomy 
depth  within  its  arms,  that  made  up,  by  its  spacious  com- 
prehensiveness, for  the  lack  of  any  of  those  artistic  curves 
which  abound  in  a  modern  chair. ^ 

Ordinarily,  the  point  of  view  in  description  is  fixed. 
It  is  permissible,  however,  to  introduce  movement 
into  description,  and  thus  have  the  viev^oint  a  chang- 
ing one ;  but  in  this  case  the  reader  must  be  kept  duly 
informed  as  to  each  change  in  the  point  of  view.  If 
this  is  not  done,  the  result  will  almost  surely  be 
confusion.  The  picture  v^dll  have  a  blurred  effect 
like  that  produced  in  a  photograph  when  the  camera 
is  shifted  during  the  exposure  of  the  plate. 

As  an  illustration  of  how  the  point  of  view  may 
change,  yet  without  loss  of  distinctness  in  the  result- 
ing picture,  take  the  following : 

^From  Hawthorne's  House  of  the  Seven  Cfahles. 


METHODS  OF  ATTAINING  EFFECTIVENESS    203 

A  moment  after  passing  the  gate  you  are  in  twilight, — 
though  the  sun  may  be  blinding  on  the  white  road  without. 
All  about  you  is  a  green  gloaming,  up  through  which  you 
see  immense  tininks  rising.  Follow  the  first  path  that  slopes 
up  on  your  left  as  you  proceed,  if  you  wish  to  obtain  the 
best  general  view  of  the  place  in  the  shortest  possible  time. 
As  you  proceed,  the  garden  on  your  right  deepens  more 
and  more  into  a  sort  of  ravine; — on  your  left  rises  a  sort 
of  foliage-shrouded  cliff;  and  all  this  in  a  beautiful  crepus- 
cular dimness,  made  by  the  foliage  of  great  trees  meeting 
overhead.  Palms  rooted  a  hundred  feet  below  you  hold 
their  heads  a  hundred  feet  above  you;  yet  they  can  barely 
reach  the  light.  Farther  on  the  ravine  widens  to  frame 
in  two  tiny  lakes,  dotted  with  artificial  islands,  which  are 
miniatures  of  Martinique,  Guadeloupe,  and  Dominica :  these 
are  covered  with  tropical  plants,  many  of  which  are  total 
strangers  even  here :  they  are  natives  of  India,  Senegambia, 
Algeria,  and  the  most  eastern  East.  Arborescent  ferns  of 
unfamiliar  elegance  curve  up  from  path-verge  or  lake-brink ; 
and  the  great  arhre-du-voyageur  outspreads  its  colossal  fan. 
Giant  lianas  droop  down  over  the  way  in  loops  and  fes- 
toons; tapering  green  cords,  which  are  creepers  descending 
to  take  root,  hang  everywhere;  and  parasites  with  stems 
as  thick  as  cables  coil  about  the  trees  like  boas.  Trunks 
shooting  up  out  of  sight,  into  the  green  wilderness  above, 
display  no  bark;  you  cannot  guess  what  sort  of  trees  they 
are;  they  are  so  thickly  wrapped  in  creepers  as  to  seem 
pillars  of  leaves.  Between  you  and  the  sky,  where  every- 
thing is  fighting  for  the  sun,  there  is  an  almost  unbroken 
vault  of  leaves,  a  cloudy  green  confusion  in  which  nothing 
particular  is  distinguishable. 

You  come  to  breaks  now  and  then  in  the  green  steep  to 
your  left, — openings  created  for  cascades  pouring  down 
from  one  mossed  basin  of  brown  stone  to  another, — or 
gaps  occupied  by  flights  of  stone  steps,  green  with  mosses, 


204  DESCRIPTION 

and  chocolate-colored  by  age.  These  steps  lead  to  loftier 
paths;  and  all  the  stone- work — the  grottos,  bridges,  basins, 
terraces,  steps, — are  darkened  by  time  and  velveted  with 
mossy  things.  It  is  of  another  century,  this  garden :  special 
ordinances  were  passed  concerning  it  during  the  French 
Revolution.  It  is  very  quaint;  it  suggests  an  art  spirit  as 
old  as  Versailles,  or  older;  but  it  is  indescribably  beautiful 
even  now. 

At  last  you  near  the  end,  to  hear  the  roar  of  falling 
water; — there  is  a  break  in  the  vault  of  green  above  the 
bed  of  a  river  below  you;  and  at  a  sudden  turn  you  come 
in  sight  of  the  cascade.  Before  you  is  the  Morne  itself; 
and  against  the  burst  of  descending  light  you  discern  a 
precipice-verge.  Over  it,  down  one  green  furrow  in  its 
brow,  tumbles  the  rolling  foam  of  a  cataract,  like  falling 
smoke,  to  be  caught  below  in  a  succession  of  moss-covered 
basins.  The  first  clear  leap  of  the  water  is  nearly  seventy 
feet.  .  .  . 

Returning  by  another  path,  you  may  have  a  view  of  other 
cascades — though  none  so  imposing.  But  they  are  beauti- 
ful; and  you  will  not  soon  forget  the  effect  of  one — flanked 
at  its  summit  by  white-stemmed  palms  which  lift  their 
leaves  so  high  into  the  light  that  the  loftiness  of  them 
gives  the  sensation  of  vertigo.  Dizzy  also  the  magnificence 
of  the  great  colonnade  of  palmistes  and  angelins,  two  hun- 
dred feet  high,  through  which  you  pass  if  you  follow 
the  river-path  from  the  cascade, — the  famed  AlUe  des 
duels,^ 

In  the  following  series  of  memory  pictures,  too, 
though  the  point  of  view  changes  frequently,  there 
is  not  the  slightest  trace  of  blur  or  confusion : 

^  From  Lafcadio  Hearn's  Ttoo  Years  in  the  French  West 
Indies. 


METHODS  OF  ATTAINING  EFFECTIVENESS    205 

The  scaffold  of  the  pillory  was  a  point  of  view  that  re- 
vealed to  Hester  Prynne  the  entire  track  along  which  she  had 
been  treading  since  her  happy  infancy.  Standing  on  that 
miserable  eminence,  she  saw  again  her  native  village,  in 
Old  England,  and  her  paternal  home;  a  decayed  house  of 
gray  stone,  with  a  poverty-stricken  aspect,  but  retaining 
a  half -obliterated  shield  of  arms  over  the  portal,  in  token 
of  antique  gentility.  She  saw  her  father's  face,  with  its 
bald  brow,  and  reverend  white  beard,  that  flowed  over  the 
old-fashioned  Elizabethan  ruff;  her  mother's,  too,  with  the 
look  of  heedful  and  anxious  love  which  it  always  wore 
in  her  remembrance,  and  which,  even  since  her  death,  had 
so  often  laid  the  impediment  of  a  gentle  remonstrance  in 
her  daughter's  pathway.  She  saw  her  own  face,  glowing 
with  girlish  beauty,  and  illuminating  all  the  interior  of 
the  dusky  mirror  in  which  she  had  been  wont  to  gaze  at  it. 
There  she  beheld  another  countenance,  of  a  man  well  stricken 
in  years,  a  pale,  thin,  scholar-like  visage,  with  eyes  dim  and 
bleared  by  the  lamplight  that  had  served  them  to  pore  over 
many  ponderous  books.  Yet  those  same  bleared  optics  had 
a  strange,  penetrating  power,  when  it  was  their  owner's 
purpose  to  read  the  human  soul.  This  figure  of  the  study 
and  the  cloister,  as  Hester  Prynne's  womanly  fancy  failed 
not  to  recall,  was  slightly  deformed,  with  the  left  shoulder 
a  trifle  higher  than  the  right.  Next  rose  before  her,  in 
memory's  picture-gallery,  the  intricate  and  narrow  thor- 
oughfares, the  tall,  gray  houses,  the  huge  cathedrals,  and 
the  public  edifices,  ancient  in  date  and  quaint  in  architecture, 
of  a  Continental  city;  where  a  new  life  had  awaited  her 
still  in  connection  with  the  misshapen  scholar;  a  new  life, 
but  feeding  itself  on  time-worn  materials,  like  a  tuft  of 
green  moss  on  a  crumbling  wall.  Lastly,  in  lieu  of  these 
shifting  scenes,  came  back  the  rude  market-place  of  the 
Puritan  settlement,  with  all  the  townspeople  assembled  and 
leveling  their  stern  regards  at  Hester  Prynne,  yes,  at  her- 


206  DESCRIPTION 

self,  who  stood  on  the  scaffold  of  the  pillory,  an  infant  on 
her  arm,  and  the  letter  A,  in  scarlet,  fantastically  embroid- 
ered with  gold-thread,  upon  her  bosom. ^ 

Description  of  this  kind  differs,  obviously,  in  very 
few  respects  from  narration.  The  passage  just  quoted 
might  almost,  in  fact,  be  regarded  as  narration. 
Hawthorne 's  purpose  is  to  review  rapidly,  yet  with  as 
much  vividness  as  possible,  the  course  of  events  in  the 
early  life  of  his  heroine.  To  do  this,  he  adopts  the 
descriptive,  rather  than  the  narrative  method ;  but  he 
puts  as  much  movement  into  his  description  as  pos- 
sible. 

How  easily  description  may  pass  into  narration  and 
still  retain  the  descriptive  purpose  may  be  seen  in 
the  following: 

We  ate  our  lunch  at  Bethlehem  in  a  curiosity-shop.  The 
table  was  spread  at  the  back  of  the  room  by  the  open  win- 
dow. All  around  us  were  hanging  innumerable  chaplets 
and  rosaries  of  mother-of-pearl,  of  carnelian,  of  carved 
olive-stones,  of  glass  beads;  trinkets  and  souvenirs  of  all 
imaginable  kinds,  tiny  sheep-bells  and  inlaid  boxes  and 
carved  fans  filled  the  cases  and  cabinets.  Through  the 
window  came  the  noise  of  people  busy  at  Bethlehem's  chief 
industry,  the  cutting  and  polishing  of  mother-of-pearl  for 
mementoes.  The  jingling  bells  of  our  pack-train,  passing 
the  open  door,  reminded  us  that  our  camp  was  to  be  pitched 
miles  away  on  the  road  to  Hebron. 

We  called  for  the  horses  and  rode  on  through  the  town. 
Very  beautiful  and  peaceful  was  the  view  from  the  southern 
hill,  looking  down  upon  the  pastures  of  Bethlehem  where 
"  shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by  night,"  and  the  field  of 
Boaz  where  Ruth  followed  the  reapers  among  the  corn. 

*  From  Hawthorne's  Scarlet  Letter, 


METHODS  OF  ATTAINING  EFFECTIVENESS    207 

Down  dale  and  up  hill  we  journeyed;  bright  green  of 
almond-trees,  dark  green  of  carob-trees,  snowy  blossoms  of 
apricot-trees,  argent  verdure  of  olive-trees,  adorning  the 
valleys.  Then  out  over  the  wilder,  rockier  heights;  and  past 
the  great  empty  Pools  of  Solomon,  lying  at  the  head  of 
the  Wadi  Aras,  watched  by  a  square  ruined  castle;  and 
up  the  winding  road  and  along  the  lofty  flower-sprinkled 
ridges;  and  at  last  we  came  to  our  tents,  pitched  in  the 
wide,  green  Wadi-el-'Arrub,  beside  the  bridge. 

Springs  gushed  out  of  the  hillside  here  and  ran  down 
in  a  little  laughing  brook  through  lawns  full  of  tiny  pink 
and  white  daisies,  and  broad  fields  of  tangled  weeds  and 
flowers,  red  anemones,  blue  iris,  purple  mallows,  scarlet 
adonis,  with  here  and  there  a  strip  of  cultivated  ground 
shimmering  with  silky  leeks  or  dotted  with  young  cucum- 
bers. There  was  a  broken  aqueduct  cut  in  the  rock  at  the 
side  of  the  valley,  and  the  brook  slipped  by  a  large  ruined 
reservoir. 

"  George,"  said  I  to  the  Bethlehemite,  as  he  sat  meditating 
on  the  edge  of  the  dry  pool,  "  what  do  you  think  of  this 
valley?" 

"  I  think,"  said  George,  "  that  if  I  had  a  few  thousand 
dollars  to  buy  this  land,  with  all  this  runaway  water  I  could 
make  it  blossom  like  a  peach-tree."  ^ 

In  what  has  been  said  so  far  as  to  the  appeal  which 
description  makes  to  the  senses,  it  has  been  the  sense 
of  sight  which  we  have  had  chiefly  in  mind.  Visual 
images,  however,  are  not  the  only  kind  of  images 
which  descriptive  writing  may  evoke.  Sounds  and 
odors  affect  us,  as  well  as  form  and  color,  and  de- 
scription may  seek  to  reproduce  the  impression  which 
they  make  upon  us.     Examples   of  the   attempt  to 

*  From  Henry  Van  Dyke's  Out  of  Doors  in  the  Holy  Land. 


208  DESCRIPTION 

reproduce  impressions  other  than  those  derived  from 
form  and  color  may  be  seen  in  the  following: 

A  rough  smack  of  resin  was  in  the  air,  and  a  crystal 
mountain  purity.  It  came  pouring  over  these  green  slopes 
by  the  oceanful.  The  woods  sang  aloud,  and  gave  largely 
of  their  healthful  breath.  Gladness  seemed  to  inhabit  these 
upper  zones,  and  we  had  left  indifference  behind  us  in  the 
valley.  "  I  to  the  hills  will  lift  mine  eyes ! "  There  are 
days  in  a  life  when  thus  to  climb  out  of  the  lowlands, 
seems  Uke  scaling  heaven.^ 

We  ride  past  the  gardens  and  through  the  shady  lanes 
to  our  camp,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  modern  village.  The 
air  is  heavy  and  languid,  full  of  relaxing  influence,  an  air 
of  sloth  and  luxury,  seeming  to  belong  to  some  strange 
region  below  the  level  of  human  duty  and  effort  as  far  as 
it  is  below  the  level  of  the  sea.  The  fragrance  of  the 
orange-blossoms,  like  a  subtle  incense  of  indulgence,  floats 
on  the  evening  breeze.  Veiled  figures  pass  us  in  the  lanes, 
showing  lustrous  eyes.  A  sound  of  Oriental  music  and 
laughter  and  clapping  hands  comes  from  one  of  the  houses 
in  an  inclosure  hedged  with  acacia-trees.  We  sit  in  the 
door  of  our  tent  at  sundown  and  dream  of  the  vanished 
palm-groves,  the  gardens  of  Cleopatra,  the  palaces  of  Herod, 
the  soft,  ignoble  history  of  that  region  of  fertility  and 
indolence,  rich  in  harvest,  poor  in  manhood.' 

In  descriptions  of  character,  mental  states,  and  the 
like,  there  can,  of  course,  be  no  appeal  to  any  of  the 
senses,  since  the  things  described  have  no  materiality. 
As  applied  to  such  descriptions,  the  term  '*  point  of 

iFrom  Stevenson's  Silverado  Squatters. 

»  From  Henry  Van  Dyke's  Out  of  Doors  in  the  Holy  Land. 


METHODS  OF  ATTAINING  EFFECTIVENESS    209 

view  "  must  therefore  be  taken  in  a  metaphorical 
sense;  and  to  say  that  a  writer  here  must  keep  his 
point  of  view  in  mind,  means  simply  that  he  must 
select  and  group  the  details  he  mentions  in  such  a 
way  that  they  will  appeal  to  the  reader's  imagination 
as  a  whole,  and  not  as  separate  and  unrelated  frag- 
ments. This  he  can  do  most  readily  by  making  some 
one  trait  of  the  character  or  mental  state  described 
the  dominating  trait  or  principle  of  the  whole,  and 
subordinating  all  others  to  it. 

Note,  for  example,  the  effectiveness  of  the  follow- 
ing description  of  the  character  of  Clifford  Pyncheon, 
after  his  return  from  prison,  where  his  likeness  to  a 
child  is  made  the  dominating  trait: 


But  it  would  be  no  fair  picture  of  Clifford's  state  of 
mind,  were  we  to  represent  him  as  continually  or  prevail- 
ingly wretched.  On  the  contrary,  there  was  no  other  man 
in  the  city,  we  are  bold  to  affirm,  of  so  much  as  half  his 
years,  who  enjoyed  so  many  lightsome  and  griefless  mo- 
ments as  himself.  He  had  no  burden  of  care  upon  him; 
there  were  none  of  those  questions  and  contingencies  with 
the  future  to  be  settled,  which  wear  away  all  other  lives, 
and  render  them  not  worth  having  by  the  very  process  of 
providing  for  their  support.  In  this  respect,  he  was  a  child, 
— a  child  for  the  whole  term  of  his  existence,  be  it  long 
or  short.  Indeed,  his  life  seemed  to  be  standing  still  at 
a  period  little  in  advance  of  childhood,  and  to  cluster  all 
his  reminiscences  about  that  epoch ;  just  as,  after  the  torpor 
of  a  heavy  blow,  the  sufferer's  reviving  consciousness  goes 
back  to  a  moment  considerably  behind  the  accident  that 
stupefied  him.  He  sometimes  told  Phoebe  and  Hepzibah  his 
dreams,  in  which  he  invariably  played  the  part  of  a  child,  or 


210  DESCRIPTION 

a  very  young  man.  So  vivid  were  they,  in  relation  of 
them,  that  he  once  held  a  dispute  with  his  sister  as  to  the 
particular  figure  or  print  of  a  chintz  morning-dress,  which 
he  had  seen  their  mother  wear,  in  the  dream  of  the  preceding 
night.  Hepzibah,  piquing  herself  on  a  woman's  accuracy 
in  such  matters,  held  it  to  be  slightly  different  from  what 
Clifford  described;  but  producing  the  very  gown  from  an 
old  trunk,  it  proved  to  be  identical  with  his  remembrance 
of  it.  Had  Clifford,  every  time  that  he  emerged  out  of 
dreams  so  lifelike,  undergone  the  torture  of  transforma- 
tion from  a  boy  into  an  old  and  broken  man,  the  daily  re- 
currence of  the  shock  would  have  been  too  much  to  bear. 
It  would  have  caused  an  acute  agony  to  thrill,  from  the 
morning  twilight,  all  the  day  through,  until  bedtime;  and 
even  then  would  have  mingled  a  dull,  inscrutable  pain,  and 
pallid  hue  of  misfortune,  with  th  visionary  bloom  and 
adolescence  of  his  slumber.  But  the  nightly  moonshine  in- 
terwove itself  with  the  morning  mist,  and  enveloped  him  as 
in  a  robe,  which  he  hugged  about  his  person,  and  seldom 
let  realities  pierce  through;  he  was  not  often  quite  awake, 
but  slept  open-eyed,  and  perhaps  fancied  himself  most 
dreaming  then. 

Thus  lingering  always  so  near  his  childhood,  he  had  sym- 
pathies with  children,  and  kept  his  heart  the  fresher 
thereby,  like  a  reservoir  into  which  rivulets  were  pouring, 
not  far  from  the  fountain-head.  Though  prevented,  by 
a  subtile  sense  of  propriety,  from  desiring  to  associate 
with  them,  he  loved  few  things  better  than  to  look  out 
of  the  arched  window,  and  see  a  little  girl  driving  her 
hoop  along  the  sidewalk,  or  schoolboys  at  a  game  of  ball. 
Their  voices,  also,  were  very  pleasant  to  him,  heard  at  a 
distance,  all  swarming  and  intermingling  together,  as  flies 
do  in  a  sunny  room.^ 

*  From  Hawthorne's  House  of  the  Seven  Odhles. 


METHODS  OF  ATTAINING  EFFECTIVENESS    211 

In  all  descriptive  writing,  vividness  is  an  essential 
quality.  Vividness  depends  partly  upon  the  selection 
and  arrangement  of  details,  but  chiefly,  perhaps,  upon 
the  apt  choice  of  words.  Whatever  device  the  descrip- 
tive writer  may  use  to  help  give  vividness  to  his 
description,  this  one  thing  he  must  be  particular  about. 
The  word  that  most  nearly  corresponds  to  the  thing, 
that  best  brings  out  what  is  characteristic  in  it,  is 
the  word  to  be  used,  and  the  writer  must  make  it  his 
business  to  find  that  word,  if  possible.  Vague,  inex- 
act, or  inappropriate  diction  is  fatal  to  effectiveness 
in  description.  The  expressive  verb,  the  apt  figure, 
the  picturesque  epithet, — these  are  the  things  that 
count. 

Note  the  suggestiveness  of  the  italicized  words  and 
phrases  in  the  following: 

The  design  upon  that  fan  represented  only  the  white 
rushing  burst  of  one  great  wave  on  a  beach,  and  sea-birds 
shooting  in  exultation  through  the  blue  overhead.  But  to 
behold  it  was  worth  all  the  trouble  of  the  journey.  It  was 
a  glory  of  light,  a  thunder  of  motion,  a  triumph  of  sea-wind, 
all  in  one.^ 

The  good  man,  he  was  now  getting  old,  towards  sixty  per- 
haps; and  gave  you  the  idea  of  a  life  that  had  been  full 
of  sufferings;  a  life  heavy-laden,  half -vanquished,  still 
swimming  painfully  in  seas  of  manifold  physical  and  other 
bewilderment.  Brow  and  head  were  round,  and  of  massive 
weight,  but  the  face  was  flabby  and  irresolute.  The  deep 
eyes,  of  a  light  hazel,  were  as  full  of  sorrow  as  of  inspira- 
tion; confused  pain  looked  mildly  from  them,  as  in  a  kincj 

*  From  Lafcadio  Hearn's  Out  of  the  East. 


212  DESCRIPTION 

of  mild  astonishment.  The  whole  figure  and  air,  good  and 
amiable  otherwise,  might  be  called  flabby  and  irresolute; 
expressive  of  weakness  under  possibility  of  strength.  He 
hung  loosely  on  his  limbs,  with  knees  bent,  and  stooping 
attitude;  in  walking,  he  rather  shuffled  than  decisively 
stept;  and  a  lady  once  remarked,  he  could  never  fix  which 
side  of  the  garden  walk  would  suit  him  best,  but  continually 
shifted,  in  corkscrew  fashion,  and  kept  trying  both.  A 
heavy-laden,  high-aspiring  and  surely  much-suffering  man. 
His  voice,  naturally  soft  and  good,  had  contracted  itself 
into  a  plaintive  snuffle  and  sing-song;  he  spoke  as  if  preach- 
ing,— you  would  have  said,  preaching  earnestly  and  also 
hopelessly  the  weightiest  things.^ 

*  Carlyle's  picture  of  Coleridge:  see  his  Life  of  Sterling. 


Ill 

SPECIMENS  OF  DESCRIPTION 

Charles  Lamb  ^ 

Methinks  I  see  him  before  me  now,  as  he  appeared  then, 
and  as  he  continued  with  scarcely  any  perceptible  altera- 
tion to  me,  during  the  twenty  years  of  intimacy  which 
followed,  and  were  closed  by  his  death.  A  light  frame,  so 
fragile  that  it  seemed  as  if  a  breath  would  overthrow  it, 
clad  in  clerk-like  black,  was  surmounted  by  a  head  of  form 
and  expression  the  most  noble  and  sweet.  His  black  hair 
curled  crisply  about  an  expanded  forehead;  his  eyes,  softly 
brown,  twinkled  with  varying  expression,  though  the  preva- 
lent feeling  was  sad;  and  the  nose  slightly  curved,  and 
delicately  carved  at  the  nostril,  with  the  lower  outline  of 
the  face  regularly  oval,  completed  a  head  which  was  finely 
placed  on  the  shoulders,  and  gave  importance  and  even  dig- 
nity to  a  diminutive  and  shadowy  stem.  Who  shall  describe 
his  countenance,  catch  its  quivering  sweetness,  and  fix  it 
forever  in  words?  There  are  none,  alas,  to  answer  the  vain 
desire  of  friendship.  Deep  thought,  striving  with  humor; 
the  lines  of  suffering  wreathed  into  cordial  mirth;  and  a 
smile  of  painful  sweetness,  present  an  image  to  the  mind 
it  can  as  little  describe  as  lose.  His  personal  appearance 
and  manner  are  not  unfitly  characterized  by  what  he  him- 

»TalfQurd'a  sketch  of  Lamb;  quoted  by  Ainger  in  his  Life  of 
Lamb. 

m 


214  DESCRIPTION 

self  says  in  one  of  his  letters  to  Manning  of  Braham,  "a 
compound  of  the  Jew,  the  gentleman,  and  the  angel." 

Miss  Tox  ^ 

"Mrs.  Chick,"  said  a  very  bland  female  voice  outside, 
"  how  are  you  now,  my  dear  friend  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Paul,"  said  Louisa,  in  a  low  voice,  as  she  rose 
from  her  seat,  "it^s  Miss  Tox.  The  kindest  creature!  I 
never  could  have  got  here  without  her!  Miss  Tox,  my 
brother  Mr.  Dombey.  Paul,  my  dear,  my  very  particular 
friend  Miss  Tox." 

The  lady  thus  specially  presented,  was  a  long  lean 
figure,  wearing  such  a  faded  air  that  she  seemed  not  to 
have  been  made  in  what  linen-drapers  call  "  fast  colors " 
originally,  and  to  have,  by  little  and  little,  washed  out. 
But  for  this  she  might  have  been  described  as  the  very  pink 
of  general  propitiation  and  politeness.  From  a  long  habit 
of  listening  admirably  to  everything  that  was  said  in  her 
presence,  and  looking  at  the  speakers  as  if  she  were  men- 
tally engaged  in  taking  off  impressions  of  their  images 
upon  her  soul,  never  to  part  with  the  same  but  with  life, 
her  head  had  quite  settled  on  one  side.  Her  hands  had 
contracted  a  spasmodic  habi  of  raising  themselves  of  their 
own  accord  as  in  involuntary  admiration.  Her  eyes  were 
liable  to  a  similar  affection.  She  had  the  softest  voice  that 
ever  was  heard;  and  her  nose,  stupendously  aquiline,  had 
a  little  knob  in  the  very  center  or  key-stone  of  the  bridge, 
whence  it  tended  downward  toward  her  face,  as  in  an  in- 
vincible determination  never  to  turn  up  at  anything. 

Miss  Tox's  dress,  though  perfectly  genteel  and  good, 
had  a  certain  character  of  angularity  and  scantiness.  She 
was  accustomed  to  wear  odd  weedy  little  flowers  in  her 
bonnets  and  caps.     Strange  grasses  were  sometimes  per- 

*  From  Dickens's  Domhey  and  Son, 


SPECIMENS  OF  DESCRIPTION  215 

ceived  in  her  hair;  and  it  was  observed  by  the  curious, 
of  all  her  collars,  frills,  tuckers,  wrist-bands,  and  other 
gossamer  articles — indeed  of  everything  she  wore  which  had 
two  ends  to  it  intended  to  unite — that  the  two  ends  were 
never  on  good  terms,  and  wouldn't  quite  meet  without  a 
struggle.  She  had  furry  articles  for  winter  wear,  as  tip- 
pets, boas,  and  muffs,  which  stood  up  on  end  in  a  rampant 
manner,  and  were  not  at  all  sleek.  She  was  much  given 
to  the  carrying  about  of  small  bags  with  snaps  to  them, 
that  went  off  like  little  pistols  when  they  were  shut  up;  and 
when  full-dressed,  she  wore  round  her  neck  the  barrenest 
of  lockets,  representing  a  fishy  old  eye,  with  no  approach  to 
speculation  in  it.  These  and  other  appearances  of  a  sim- 
ilar nature,  had  served  to  propagate  the  opinion,  that  Miss 
Tox  was  a  lady  of  what  is  called  limited  independence. 
Possibly  her  mincing  gait  encouraged  the  belief,  and  sug- 
gested that  her  clipping  a  step  of  ordinary  compass  into 
two  or  three,  originated  in  her  habit  of  making  the  most 
of  everything. 

An  English  Stage  Coach  Driver  ^ 

He  has  commonly  a  broad  full  face,  curiously  mottled 
with  red,  as  if  the  blood  had  been  forced  by  hard  feeding 
into  every  vessel  of  the  skin ;  he  is  swelled  into  jolly  dimen- 
sions by  frequent  potations  of  malt  liquors,  and  his  bulk 
is  still  further  increased  by  a  multiplicity  of  coats,  in  which 
he  is  buried  like  a  cauliflower,  the  upper  one  reaching  to 
his  heels.  He  wears  a  broad-brimmed,  low-crowned  hat;  a 
huge  roll  of  colored  handkerchief  about  his  neck,  knowingly 
knotted  and  tucked  in  at  the  bosom;  and  has  in  summer 
time  a  large  bouquet  of  flowers  in  his  buttonhole,  the  pres- 
ent, most  probably,  of  some  enamored  country  lass.  His 
waistcoat  is  commonly  of  some  bright  color,  striped,  and 
*  From  Irving's  Sketch  Book. 


216  DESCRIPTION 

his  smallclothes  extend  far  below  the  knees,  to  meet  a  pair 
of  jockey  boots  which  reach  about  halfway  up  his  legs. 

All  this  costume  is  maintained  with  much  precision;  he 
has  a  pride  in  having  his  clothes  of  excellent  materials ;  and, 
notwithstanding  the  seeming  grossness  of  his  appearance, 
there  is  still  discernible  that  neatness  and  propriety  of 
person,  which  is  almost  inherent  in  an  Englishman.  He 
enjoys  great  consequence  and  consideration  along  the  road; 
has  frequent  conferences  with  the  village  housewives,  who 
look  upon  him  as  a  man  of  great  trust  and  dependence; 
and  he  seems  to  have  a  good  understanding  with  every 
bright-eyed  country  lass.  The  moment  he  arrives  where  the 
horses  are  to  be  changed,  he  throws  down  the  reins  with 
something  of  an  air,  and  abandons  the  cattle  to  the  care  of 
the  hostler,  his  duty  being  merely  to  drive  them  from  one 
stage  to  another.  When  oif  the  box,  his  hands  are  thrust 
into  the  pockets  of  his  great-coat,  and  he  rolls  about  the  inn 
yard  with  an  air  of  the  most  absolute  lordliness.  Here  he 
is  generally  surrounded  by  an  admiring  throng  of  hostlers, 
stable  boys,  shoeblacks,  and  those  nameless  hangers-on,  that 
infest  inns  and  taverns,  and  run  errands,  and  do  all  kind 
of  odd  jobs,  for  the  privilege  of  battening  on  the  drippings 
of  the  kitchen  and  the  leakage  of  the  taproom.  These  all 
look  up  to  him  as  to  an  oracle ;  treasure  up  his  cant  phrases ; 
echo  his  opinions  about  horses  and  other  topics  of  jockey 
lore;  and,  above  all,  endeavor  to  imitate  his  air  and  car- 
riage. Every  ragamuffin  that  has  a  coat  to  his  back,  thrusts 
his  hands  in  the  pockets,  rolls  in  his  gait,  talks  slang,  and  is 
an  embryo  Coachey. 

The  Interior  of  St.  Mark^s,  Venice  ^ 

Through  the  heavy  door  whose  bronze  network  closes 
the  place  of  his  rest,  let  us  enter  the  church  itself.    It  is 

*  From  Ruskin's  Stones  of  Venice. 


SPECIMENS  OF  DESCRIPTION  217 

lost  in  still  deeper  twilight,  to  which  the  eye  must  be  ac- 
customed for  some  moments  before  the  form  of  the  build- 
ing can  be  traced;  and  then  there  opens  before  us  a  vast 
cave,  hewn  out  into  the  form  of  a  Cross,  and  divided  into 
shadowy  aisles  by  many  pillars.  Round  the  domes  of  its 
roof  the  light  enters  only  through  narrow  apertures  like 
large  stars;  and  here  and  there  a  ray  or  two  from  some 
far  away  casement  wanders  into  the  darkness,  and  casts  a 
narrow  phosphoric  stream  upon  the  waves  of  marble  that 
heave  and  fall  in  a  thousand  colors  along  the  floor.  What 
else  there  is  of  light  is  from  torches,  or  silver  lamps,  burn- 
ing ceaselessly  in  the  recesses  of  the  chapels;  the  roof 
sheeted  with  gold,  and  the  polished  walls  covered  with 
alabaster,  give  back  at  every  curve  and  angle  some  feeble 
gleaming  to  the  flames;  and  the  glories  round  the  heads  of 
the  sculptured  saints  flash  out  upon  us  as  we  pass  them, 
and  sink  again  into  the  gloom.  Under  foot  and  over  head, 
a  continual  succession  of  crowded  imagery,  one  picture 
passing  into  another,  as  in  a  dream;  forms  beautiful  and 
terrible  mixed  together;  dragons  and  serpents,  and  raven- 
ing beasts  of  prey,  and  graceful  bii'ds  that  in  the  midst  of 
them  drink  from  running  fountains  and  feed  from  vases  of 
crystal;  the  passions  and  the  pleasures  of  human  life  sym- 
bolized together,  and  the  mystery  of  its  redemption;  for 
the  mazes  of  interwoven  lines  and  changeful  pictures  lead 
always  at  last  to  the  Cross,  lifted  and  carved  in  every 
place  and  upon  every  stone;  sometimes  with  the  ser- 
pent of  eternity  wrapt  round  it,  sometimes  with  doves 
beneath  its  arms,  and  sweet  herbage  growing  forth  from 
its  feet;  but  conspicuous  most  of  all  on  the  great  rood 
that  crosses  the  church  before  the  altar,  raised  in  bright 
blazonry  against  the  shadow  of  the  apse.  And  although 
in  the  recesses  of  the  aisles  and  chapels,  when  the  mist 
of  the  incense  hangs  heavily,  we  may  see  continually 
a  figure  traced  in  faint  lines  upon  their  marble,  a  woman 


218  DESCRIPTION 

standing  with  her  eyes  raised  to  heaven,  and  the  inscrip- 
tion above  her,  "  Mother  of  God,"  she  is  not  here  the  pre- 
siding deity.  It  is  the  Cross  that  is  first  seen,  and  always 
burning  in  the  center  of  the  temple;  and  every  dome 
and  hollow  of  its  roof  has  the  figure  of  Christ  in  the  utmost 
height  of  it,  raised  in  power,  or  returning  in  judgment. 

Nor  is  this  interior  without  effect  on  the  minds  of  the 
people.  At  every  hour  of  the  day  there  are  groups  collected 
before  the  various  shrines,  and  solitary  worshipers  scat- 
tered through  the  darker  places  of  the  church,  evidently  in 
prayer  both  deep  and  reverent,  and,  for  the  most  part,  pro- 
foundly sorrowful.  The  devotees  at  the  greater  number 
of  the  renowned  shrines  of  Romanism  may  be  seen  mur- 
muring their  appointed  prayers  with  wandering  eyes  and 
unengaged  gestures,  but  the  step  of  the  stranger  does  not 
disturb  those  who  kneel  on  the  pavement  of  St.  Mark's; 
and  hardly  a  moment  passes,  from  early  morning  to  sun- 
set, in  which  we  may  not  see  some  half -veiled  figure  enter 
beneath  the  Arabian  porch,  east  itself  into  long  abasement 
on  the  floor  of  the  temple,  and  then  rising  slowly  with 
more  confirmed  step,  and  with  a  passionate  kiss  and  clasp 
of  the  arms  given  to  the  feet  of  the  crucifix,  by  which  the 
lamps  burn  always  in  the  northern  aisle,  leave  the  church, 
as  if  comforted. 

A  Sunday  in  London  ^ 

In  a  preceding  paper  I  have  spoken  of  an  English  Sun- 
day in  the  country,  and  its  tranquilizing  effect  upon  the 
landscape,  but  where  is  its  sacred  influence  more  strikingly 
apparent  than  in  the  very  heart  of  that  great  Babel,  Lon- 
don? On  this  sacred  day,  the  gigantic  monster  is  charmed 
into  repose.  The  intolerable  din  and  struggle  of  the  week 
are  at  an  end.    The  shops  are  shut.    The  fires  of  forges  and 

*  From  Irving's  Sketch  Book, 


SPECIMENS  OF  DESCRIPTION  219 

manufactories  are  extinguished;  and  the  sun,  no  longer 
obscured  by  murky  clouds  of  smoke,  pours  down  a  sober, 
yellow  radiance  into  the  quiet  streets.  The  few  pedestrians 
we  meet,  instead  of  hurrying  forward  with  anxious  coun- 
tenances, move  leisurely  along;  their  brows  are  smoothed 
from  the  wrinkles  of  business  and  care;  they  have  put  on 
their  Sunday  looks,  and  Sunday  manners,  with  their  Sunday 
clothes,  and  are  cleansed  in  mind  as  well  as  in  person. 

And  now  the  melodious  clangor  of  bells  from  church 
towers  summons  their  several  flocks  to  the  fold.  Forth 
issues  from  his  mansion  the  family  of  the  decent  tradesman, 
the  small  children  in  the  advance;  then  the  citizen  and 
his  comely  spouse,  followed  by  the  grown-up-daughters, 
with  small  morocco-bound  prayer-books  laid  in  the  folds 
of  their  pocket-handkerchiefs.  The  housemaid  looks  after 
them  from  the  window,  admiring  the  finery  of  the  family, 
and  receiving,  perhaps,  a  nod  and  smile  from  her  young 
mistresses,  at  whose  toilet  she  has  assisted. 

Now  rumbles  along  the  carriage  of  some  magnate  of  the 
city,  peradventure  an  alderman  or  a  sheriff;  and  now  the 
patter  of  many  feet  announces  a  procession  of  charity 
scholars  in  uniforms  of  antique  cut,  and  each  with  a  prayer- 
book  under  his  arm. 

The  ringing  of  bells  is  at  an  end ;  the  rumbling  of  the  car- 
riage has  ceased;  the  pattering  of  feet  is  heard  no  more; 
the  flocks  are  folded  in  ancient  churches,  cramped  up  in 
by-lanes  and  corners  of  the  crowded  city,  where  the  vigilant 
beadle  keeps  watch,  like  the  shepherd's  dog,  round  the 
threshold  of  the  sanctuary.  For  a  time  every  thing  is 
hushed;  but  soon  is  heard  the  deep,  pervading  sound  of  the 
organ,  rolling  and  vibrating  through  the  empty  lanes 
and  courts;  and  the  sweet  chanting  of  the  choir  making 
them  resound  with  melody  and  praise.  Never  have  I  been 
more  sensible  of  the  sanctifying  effect  of  church  music,  than 
when  I  have  heard  it  thus  poured  forth,  like  a  river  of 


220  DESCRIPTION 

joy,  through  the  inmost  recesses  of  this  great  metropolis, 
elevating  it,  as  it  were,  from  all  the  sordid  pollutions  of 
the  week;  and  bearing  the  poor  world-worn  soul  on  a  tide 
of  triumphant  harmony  to  heaven. 

The  morning  service  is  at  an  end.  The  streets  are  again 
alive  with  the  congregations  returning  to  their  homes,  but 
soon  again  relapse  into  silence.  Now  comes  on  the  Sunday 
dinner,  which,  to  the  city  tradesman,  is  a  meal  of  some 
importance.  There  is  more  leisure  for  social  enjoyment 
at  the  board.  Members  of  the  family  can  now  gather 
together,  who  are  separated  by  the  laborious  occupations  of 
the  week.  A  school-boy  may  be  permitted  on  that  day  to 
come  to  the  paternal  home;  an  old  friend  of  the  family 
takes  his  accustomed  Sunday  seat  at  the  board,  tells  over 
his  well-known  stories,  and  rejoices  young  and  old  with  bis 
well-known  jokes. 

An  Iceberg^ 

At  twelve  o'clock  we  went  below,  and  had  just  got  through 
dinner,  when  the  cook  put  his  head  down  the  scuttle  and 
told  us  to  come  on  deck  and  see  the  finest  sight  that 
we  had  ever  seen.  "Where  away,  cook?"  asked  the  first 
man  who  was  up.  "  On  the  larboard  bow."  And  there 
lay,  floating  on  the  ocean,  several  miles  off,  an  immense, 
irregular  mass,  its  top  and  points  covered  with  snow,  and 
its  center  of  a  deep  indigo  color.  This  was  an  iceberg, 
and  of  the  largest  size,  as  one  of  our  men  said  who  had 
been  in  the  Northern  ocean.  As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 
the  sea  in  every  direction  was  of  a  deep  blue  color,  the 
waves  running  high  and  fresh,  and  sparkling  in  the  light, 
and  in  the  midst  lay  this  immense  mountain-island,  its 
cavities  and  valleys  thrown  into  deep  shade,  and  its  points 
and  pinnacles  glittering  in  the  sun.    All  hands  were  soon 

^  From  Two  Years  Before  the  Mast,  by  R.  H.  Dana,  Jr. 


SPECIMENS  OF  DESCRIPTION  221 

on  deck,  looking  at  it,  and  admiring  in  various  ways  its 
beauty  and  grandeur.  But  no  description  can  give  any 
idea  of  the  strangeness,  splendor,  and,  really,  the  sublimity, 
of  the  sight.  Its  great  size, — for  it  must  have  been  from 
two  to  three  miles  in  circumference  and  several  hundred  feet 
in  height, — its  slow  motion,  as  its  base  rose  and  sank  in 
the  water,  and  its  high  points  nodded  against  the  clouds ;  the 
dashing  of  the  waves  upon  it,  which,  breaking  high  with 
foam,  lined  its  base  with  a  white  crust;  and  the  thundering 
sound  of  the  cracking  of  the  mass,  and  the  breaking  and 
tumbling  down  of  huge  pieces;  together  with  its  nearness 
and  approach,  which  added  a  slight  element  of  fear, — all 
combined  to  give  to  it  the  character  of  true  sublimity.  The 
main  body  of  the  mass  was,  as  I  have  said,  of  an  indigo 
color,  its  base  crusted  with  frozen  foam;  and  as  it  grew  thin 
and  transparent  toward  the  edges  and  top,  its  color  shaded 
off  from  a  deep  blue  to  the  whiteness  of  snow.  It  seemed 
to  be  drifting  slowly  toward  the  north,  so  that  we  kept 
away  and  avoided  it.  It  was  in  sight  all  the  afternoon; 
and  when  we  got  to  leeward  of  it,  the  wind  died  away,  so 
that  we  lay-to  quite  near  it  for  a  greater  part  of  the  night. 
Unfortunately,  there  was  no  moon,  but  it  was  a  clear  night, 
and  we  could  plainly  mark  the  long,  regular  heaving  of 
the  stupendous  mass,  as  its  edges  moved  slowly  against  the 
stars.  Several  times  on  our  watch  loud  cracks  were  heard, 
which  sounded  as  though  they  must  have  run  through  the 
whole  length  of  the  iceberg,  and  several  pieces  fell  down 
with  a  thundering  crash,  plunging  heavily  into  the  sea. 
Toward  morning,  a  strong  breeze  sprang  up,  and  we  filled 
away,  and  left  it  astern,  and  at  daylight  it  was  out  of  sight. 

The  Sea  Fogs  ^ 

A  change  in  the  color  of  the  light  usually  called  me  in 
the  morning.    By  a  certain  hour,  the  long,  vertical  chinks 
*  From  Stevenson's  Silverado  Squatters.  , 


222  DESCRIPTION 

in  our  western  gable,  where  the  boards  had  shrunk  and  sep- 
arated, flashed  suddenly  into  my  eyes  as  stripes  of  dazzling 
blue,  at  once  so  dark  and  splendid  that  I  used  to  marvel 
how  the  qualities  could  be  combined.  At  an  earlier  hour, 
the  heavens  in  that  quarter  were  still  quietly  colored,  but 
the  shoulder  of  the  mountain  which  shuts  in  the  canon 
already  glowed  with  sunlight  in  a  wonderful  compound  of 
gold  and  rose  and  green ;  and  this  too  would  kindle,  although 
more  mildly  and  with  rainbow  tints,  the  fissures  of  our 
crazy  gable.  If  I  were  sleeping  heavily,  it  was  the  bold 
blue  that  struck  me  awake;  if  more  lightly,  then  I  would 
come  to  myself  in  that  earlier  and  fairer  light. 

One  Sunday  morning,  about  five,  the  first  brightness 
called  me.  I  rose  and  turned  to  the  east,  not  for  my  devo- 
tions, but  for  air.  The  night  had  been  very  still.  The  little 
private  gale  that  blew  every  morning  in  our  canon,  for 
ten  minutes  or  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  had  swiftly 
blown  itself  out;  in  the  hours  that  followed  not  a  sigh 
of  wind  had  shaken  the  treetops;  and  our  barrack,  for 
all  its  breaches,  was  less  fresh  that  morning  than  of  wont. 
But  I  had  no  sooner  reached  the  window  than  I  forgot 
all  else  in  the  sight  that  met  my  eyes,  and  I  made  but 
two  bounds  into  my  clothes,  and  down  the  crazy  plank  to 
the  platform. 

The  sun  was  still  concealed  below  the  opposite  hilltops, 
though  it  was  shining  already,  not  twenty  feet  above  my 
head,  on  our  own  mountain  slope.  But  the  scene,  beyond 
a  few  near  features,  was  entirely  changed.  Napa  Valley 
was  gone;  gone  were  all  the  lower  slopes  and  woody  foot- 
hills of  the  range;  and  in  their  place,  not  a  thousand  feet 
below  me,  rolled  a  great  level  ocean.  It  was  as  though 
I  had  gone  to  bed  the  night  before,  safe  in  a  nook  of 
inland  mountains,  and  had  awakened  in  a  bay  upon  the 
coast.  I  had  seen  these  inundations  from  below;  at  Calis- 
toga  I  had  risen  and  gone  abroad  in  the  early  morning, 


SPECIMENS  OF  DESCRIPTION  223 

coughing  and  sneezing,  under  fathoms  and  fathoms  of  gray 
sea  vapor,  like  a  cloudy  sky — a  dull  sight  for  the  artist, 
and  a  painful  experience  for  the  invalid.  But  to  sit 
aloft  one^s  self  in  the  pure  air  and  under  the  unclouded 
dome  of  heaven,  and  thus  look  down  on  the  submergence 
of  the  valley,  was  strangely  different  and  even  delightful 
to  the  eyes.  Far  away  were  hilltops  like  little  islands. 
Nearer,  a  smoky  surf  beat  about  the  foot  of  precipices 
and  poured  into  all  the  coves  of  these  rough  mountains. 
The  color  of  that  fog  ocean  was  a  thing  never  to  be  for- 
gotten. For  an  instant,  among  the  Hebrides  and  just 
about  sundown,  I  have  seen  something  like  it  on  the  sea 
itself.  But  the  white  was  not  so  opaline;  nor  was  there, 
what  surprisingly  increased  the  effect,  that  breathless,  crys- 
tal stillness  over  all.  Even  in  its  gentlest  moods  the  salt 
sea  travails,  moaning  among  the  weeds  or  lisping  on  the 
sand;  but  that  vast  fog  ocean  lay  in  a  trance  of  silence, 
nor  did  the  sweet  air  of  the  morning  tremble  with  a 
sound. 

As  I  continued  to  sit  upon  the  dump,  I  began  to  observe 
that  this  sea  was  not  so  level  as  at  first  sight  it  appeared 
to  be.  Away  in  the  extreme  south,  a  little  hill  of  fog 
arose  against  the  sky  above  the  general  surface,  and  as 
it  had  already  caught  the  sun,  it  shone  on  the  horizon 
like  the  topsails  of  some  giant  ship.  There  were  huge 
waves,  stationary,  as  it  seemed,  like  waves  in  a  frozen 
sea;  and  yet,  as  I  looked  again,  I  was  not  sure  but  they 
were  moving  after  all,  with  a  slow  and  august  advance. 
And  while  I  was  yet  doubting,  a  promontory  of  the  hills 
some  four  or  five  miles  away,  conspicuous  by  a  bouquet  of 
tall  pines,  was  in  a  single  instant  overtaken  and  swallowed 
up.  It  reappeared  in  a  little,  with  its  pines,  but  this  time 
as  an  islet,  and  only  to  be  swallowed  up  once  more  and 
then  for  good.  This  set  me  looking  nearer,  and  I  saw  that 
in  every  cove  along  the  line  of  mountains  the  fog  was 


224  DESCRIPTION 

being  piled  in  higher  and  higher,  as  though  by  some  wind 
that  was  inaudible  to  me.  I  could  trace  its  progress, 
one  pine  tree  first  growing  hazy  and  then  disappearing 
after  another;  although  sometimes  there  was  none  of  this 
forerunning  haze,  but  the  whole  opaque  white  ocean  gave 
a  start  and  swallowed  a  piece  of  mountain  at  a  gulp.  It 
was  to  flee  these  poisonous  fogs  that  I  had  left  the  seaboard, 
and  climbed  so  high  among  the  mountains.  And  now,  be- 
hold, here  came  the  fog  to  besiege  me  in  my  chosen  alti- 
tudes, and  yet  came  so  beautifully  that  my  first  thought  was 
of  welcome. 

The  sun  had  now  gotten  much  higher,  and  through  all 
the  gaps  of  the  hills  it  cast  long  bars  of  gold  across  that 
white  ocean.  An  eagle,  or  some  other  very  great  bird  of 
the  mountain,  came  wheeling  over  the  nearer  pine-tops,  and 
hung,  poised  and  something  sidewise,  as  if  to  look  abroad  on 
that  unwonted  desolation,  spying,  perhaps  with  terror,  for 
the  eyries  of  her  comrades.  Then,  with  a  long  cry,  she 
disappeared  again  toward  Lake  County  and  the  clearer  air. 
At  length  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  flood  were  beginning 
to  subside.  The  old  landmarks,  by  whose  disappearance  I 
had  measured  its  advance,  here  a  crag,  there  a  brave  pine 
tree,  now  began,  in  the  inverse  order,  to  make  their  reap- 
pearance into  daylight.  I  judged  all  danger  of  the  fog  was 
over.  This  was  not  Noah's  flood;  it  was  but  a  morning 
spring,  and  would  now  drift  out  seaward  whence  it  came. 
So,  mightily  relieved,  and  a  good  deal  exhilarated  by  the 
sight,  I  went  into  the  house  to  light  the  fire. 

I  suppose  it  was  nearly  seven  when  I  once  more  mounted 
the  platform  to  look  abroad.  The  fog  ocean  had  swelled 
up  enormously  since  last  I  saw  it;  and  a  few  hundred  feet 
below  me,  in  the  deep  gap  where  the  Toll  House  stands 
and  the  road  runs  through  into  Lake  County,  it  had  already 
topped  the  slope,  and  was  pouring  over  and  down  the 
other  side  like  driving  smoke.    The  wind  had  climbed  along 


SPECIMENS  OF  DESCRIPTION  225 

with  it;  and  though  I  was  still  in  the  calm  air,  I  could 
see  the  trees  tossing  below  me,  and  their  long,  strident 
sighing  mounted  to  me  where  I  stood. 

Half  an  hour  later,  the  fog  had  surmounted  all  the  ridge 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  gap,  though  a  shoulder  of  the 
mountain  still  warded  it  out  of  our  canon.  Napa  Valley 
and  its  bounding  hills  were  now  utterly  blotted  out.  The 
fog,  sunny  white  in  the  sunshine,  was  pouring  over  into 
Lake  County  in  a  huge,  ragged  cataract,  tossing  treetops 
appearing  and  disappearing  in  the  spray.  The  air  struck 
me  with  a  little  chill,  and  set  me  coughing.  It  smelled 
strong  of  the  fog,  like  the  smell  of  a  washing-house,  but 
with  a  shrewd  tang  of  the  sea  salt. 

Had  it  not  been  for  two  things — the  sheltering  spur 
which  answered  as  a  dyke,  and  the  great  valley  on  the 
other  side  which  rapidly  engulfed  whatever  mounted — our 
own  little  platform  in  the  canon  must  have  been  already 
buried  a  hundred  feet  in  salt  and  poisonous  air.  As  it 
was,  the  interest  of  the  scene  entirely  occupied  our  minds. 
We  were  set  just  out  of  the  wind,  and  but  just  above  the 
fog;  we  could  listen  to  the  voice  of  the  one  as  to  music 
on  the  stage;  we  could  plunge  our  eyes  down  into  the 
other,  as  into  some  flowing  stream  from  over  the  parapet 
of  a  bridge;  thus  we  looked  on  upon  a  strange,  impetuous, 
silent,  shifting  exhibition  of  the  powers  of  nature,  and  saw 
the  familiar  landscape  changing  from  moment  to  moment 
like  figures  in  a  dream. 

The  imagination  loves  to  trifle  with  what  is  not.  Had 
this  been  indeed  the  deluge,  I  should  have  felt  more 
strongly,  but  the  emotion  would  have  been  similar  in  kind. 
I  played  with  the  idea,  as  the  child  flees  in  delighted 
terror  from  the  creations  of  his  fancy.  The  look  of  the 
thing  helped  me.  And  when  at  last  I  began  to  flee  up 
the  mountain,  it  was  indeed  partly  to  escape  from  the  raw 
air  that  kept  me  coughing,  but  it  was  also  part  in  play. 


226  DESCRIPTION 

As  I  ascended  the  mountain-side,  I  came  once  more  to 
overlook  the  upper  surface  of  the  fog;  but  it  wore  a  dif- 
ferent appearance  from  what  I  had  beheld  at  daybreak. 
For,  first,  the  sun  now  fell  on  it  from  high  overhead,  and 
its  surface  shone  and  undulated  like  a  great  nor'land  moor 
country,  sheeted  with  untrodden  morning  snow.  And  next 
the  new  level  must  have  been  a  thousand  or  fifteen  hundred 
feet  higher  than  the  old,  so  that  only  five  or  six  points  of 
all  the  broken  country  below  me  still  stood  out.  Napa 
Valley  was  now  one  with  Sonoma  on  the  west.  On  the 
hither  side,  only  a  thin  scattered  fringe  of  bluffs  was 
unsubmerged;  and  through  all  the  gaps  the  fog  was  pour- 
ing over,  like  an  ocean,  into  the  blue  clear  sunny  country 
on  the  east.  There  it  was  soon  lost;  for  it  fell  instantly 
into  the  bottom  of  the  valleys,  following  the  water-shed; 
and  the  hilltops  in  that  quarter  were  still  clear  cut  upon 
the  eastern  sky. 

Through  the  Toll  House  gap,  and  over  the  near  ridges 
on  the  other  side,  the  deluge  was  immense.  A  spray  of  thin 
vapor  was  thrown  high  above  it,  rising  and  falling,  and 
blown  into  fantastic  shapes.  The  speed  of  its  course 
was  like  a  mountain  torrent.  Here  and  there  a  few  treetops 
were  discovered  and  then  whelmed  again;  and  for  one  sec- 
ond, the  bough  of  a  dead  pine  beckoned  out  of  the  spray  like 
the  arm  of  a  drowning  man.  But  still  the  imagination 
was  dissatisfied,  still  the  ear  waited  for  something  more. 
Had  this  indeed  been  water  (as  it  seemed  so,  to  the  eye), 
with  what  a  plunge  of  reverberating  thunder  would  it  have 
rolled  upon  its  course,  disemboweling  mountains  and  de- 
racinating pines!  And  yet  water  it  was,  and  seawater  at 
that — true  Pacific  billows,  only  somewhat  rarified,  rolling 
in  mid-air  among  the  hilltops. 

I  climbed  still  higher,  among  the  red  rattling  gravel  and 
dwarf  underwood  of  Mount  St.  Helena,  until  I  could  look 
right  down  upon  Silverado,  and  admire  the  favored  nook  in 


SPECIMENS  OF  DESCRIPTION  227 

•which  I  lay.  The  sunny  plain  of  fog  was  several  hundred 
feet  higher;  behind  the  protecting  spur  a  gigantic  accumu- 
lation of  cottony  vapor  threatened,  with  every  second,  to 
blow  over  and  submerge  our  homestead;  but  the  vortex 
setting  past  the  Toll  House  was  too  strong;  and  there  lay 
our  little  platform,  in  the  arms  of  the  deluge,  but  still 
enjoying  its  unbroken  sunshine.  About  eleven,  however, 
thin  spray  came  flying  over  the  friendly  buttress,  and  I 
began  to  think  the  fog  had  hunted  out  its  Jonah  after  all. 
But  it  was  the  last  effort.  The  wind  veered  while  we  ^ere 
at  dinner,  and  began  to  blow  squally  from  the  mountain 
summit;  and  by  half-past  one  all  that  world  of  sea-fogs 
was  utterly  routed  and  flying  here  and  there  into  the  sou^h 
in  little  rags  of  cloud.  And  instead  of  a  lone  sea-beach, 
we  found  ourselves  once  more  inhabiting  a  high  mountain- 
side with  the  clear  green  country  far  below  us,  and  the 
light  smoke  of  Calistoga  blowing  in  the  air. 


The  Grand  Canon  of  the  Colorado  ^ 

A  friend  of  mine  who  took  a  lively  interest  in  my  Western 
trip  wrote  me  that  he  wished  he  could  have  been  present 
with  his  kodak  when  we  first  looked  upon  the  Grand  Canon. 
Did  he  think  he  could  have  gotten  a  picture  of  our  souls? 
His  camera  would  have  shown  him  only  our  silent,  motion- 
less forms  as  we  stood  transfixed  by  that  first  view  of  the 
stupendous  spectacle.  Words  do  not  come  readily  to  one's 
lips,  or  gestures  to  one's  body,  in  the  presence  of  such  a 
scene.  One  of  my  companions  said  that  the  first  thing  that 
came  into  her  mind  was  the  old  text,  "Be  still,  and  know 
that  I  am  God."  To  be  still  on  such  an  occasion  is  the  easi- 
est thing  in  the  world,  and  to  feel  the  surge  of  solemn 

1  From  an  article  by  John  Burroughs  on  *'The  Grand  Cafion  of 
the  Colorado,"  the  Century,  January,  1911. 


228  DESCRIPTION 

and  reverential  emotions  is  equally  easy — is,  indeed,  almost 
inevitable.  The  immensity  of  the  scene,  its  tranquillity,  its 
order,  its  strange,  new  beauty,  and  the  monumental  char- 
acter of  its  many  forms — all  these  tend  to  beget  in  the 
beholder  an  attitude  of  silent  wonder  and  solemn  admira- 
tion. 

It  is  beautiful,  oh,  how  beautiful!  but  it  is  a  beauty  that 
awakens  a  feeling  of  solemnity  and  awe.  We  called  it  the 
"  divine  abyss."  It  seems  as  much  of  heaven  as  of  earth. 
Of  the  many  descriptions  of  it,  none  seems  adequate.  To 
rave  over  it,  or  to  pour  into  it  a  torrent  of  superlatives, 
is  of  little  avail.  My  companion  came  nearer  the  mark 
when  she  quietly  repeated  from  Revelation,  "And  he  car- 
ried me  away  in  the  spirit  to  a  great  and  high  mountain, 
and  shewed  me  that  great  city,  the  holy  Jerusalem."  It 
does  indeed  suggest  a  far-off,  half -sacred  antiquity,  some 
greater  Jerusalem,  Egypt,  Babylon,  or  India.  We  speak 
of  it  as  a  scene:  it  is  more  like  a  vision,  so  foreign  is  it  to 
all  other  terrestrial  spectacles,  and  so  surpassingly  beautiful. 

To  ordinary  folk,  the  spectacle  is  so  extraordinary,  so 
unlike  everything  one's  experience  has  yielded,  and  so 
unlike  the  results  of  the  usual  haphazard  working  of  the 
blind  forces  of  nature,  that  I  did  not  wonder  when  people 
whom  I  met  on  the  rim  asked  me  what  I  supposed  did 
all  this.  I  could  even  sympathize  with  the  remark  of  an 
old  woman  visitor  who  is  reported  to  have  said  that  she 
thought  they  had  built  the  canon  too  near  the  hotel.  The 
enormous  cleavage  which  the  canon  shows,  the  abrupt  drop 
from  the  brink  of  thousands  of  feet,  the  sheer  faces  of 
perpendicular  walls  of  dizzy  height,  give  at  first  the  im- 
pression that  it  is  all  the  work  of  some  titanic  quarryman, 
who  must  have  removed  cubic  miles  of  strata  as  we  remove 
cubic  yards  of  earth. 

Indeed,  go  out  to  O'NeiFs,  or  Hopi  Point,  and,  as  you 


SPECIMENS  OF  DESCRIPTION  229 

emerge  from  the  woods,  you  get  glimpses  of  a  blue  or  rose- 
purple  gulf  opening  before  you.  The  solid  ground  ceases 
suddenly,  and  an  aerial  perspective,  vast  and  alluring,  takes 
its  place;  another  heaven,  counter-sunk  in  the  earth,  trans- 
fixes you  on  the  brink.  "  Great  God ! "  I  can  fancy  the 
first  beholder  of  it  saying,  "  what  is  this  ?  Do  I  behold  the 
transfiguration  of  the  earth?  Has  the  solid  ground  melted 
into  thin  air?  Is  there  a  firmament  below  as  well  as  above? 
Has  the  earth's  veil  at  last  been  torn  aside,  and  the  red 
heart  of  the  globe  been  laid  bare  ?  "  If  this  first  witness 
was  not  at  once  overcome  by  the  beauty  of  the  earthly 
revelation  before  him,  or  terrified  by  its  strangeness  and 
power,  he  must  have  stood  long,  awed,  spellbound,  speech- 
less with  astonishment,  and  thrilled  with  delight.  He  may 
have  seen  vast  and  glorious  prospects  from  mountain-tops, 
he  may  have  looked  down  upon  the  earth  and  seen  it  unroll 
like  a  map  before  him;  but  he  had  never  before  looked  into 
the  earth  as  through  a  mighty  window  or  open  door,  and 
beheld  depths  and  gulfs  of  space,  with  their  atmospheric 
veils  and  illusions  and  vast  perspectives,  such  as  he  had 
seen  from  mountain-summits,  but  with  a  wealth  of  color  and 
a  suggestion  of  architectural  and  monumental  remains,  and 
a  strange  almost  unearthly  beauty,  such  as  no  mountain- 
view  could  ever  have  afforded  him. 

Three  features  of  the  canon  strike  one  at  once:  its  un- 
paralleled magnitude,  its  architectural  forms  and  sugges- 
tions, and  its  opulence  of  color  effects — a  chasm  nearly  a 
mile  deep  and  from  ten  to  twenty  miles  wide,  in  which 
Niagara  would  be  only  as  a  picture  upon  your  walls,  in 
which  the  pyramids,  seen  from  the  rim,  would  appear  only 
like  large  tents,  and  in  which  the  largest  building  upon  the 
earth  would  dwindle  to  insignificant  proportions.  There 
are  amphitheaters  and  mighty  aisles  eight  miles  long,  three 
or  four  miles  wide,  and  three  or  four  thousand  feet  deep; 
there  are  room-like  spaces  eight  hundred  feet  high;  there 


230  DESCRIPTION 

are  well-defined  alcoves  with  openings  a  mile  wide;  there 
are  niches  six  hundred  feet  high  overhung  by  arched  lintels; 
there  are  pinnacles  and  rude  statues  from  one  hundred  to 
two  hundred  feet  high.  Here  I  am  running  at  once  into 
references  to  the  architectural  features  and  suggestions  of 
the  canon,  which  must  play  a  prominent  part  in  all  faith- 
ful attempts  to  describe  it.  There  are  huge,  truncated  tow- 
ers, vast,  horizontal  moldings;  there  are  the  semblance  of 
balustrades  on  the  summit  of  a  noble  fagade.  In  one  of 
the  immense  halls  we  saw,  on  an  elevated  platform,  the  out- 
lines of  three  enormous  chairs,  fifty  feet  or  more  high,  and 
behind  and  above  them  the  suggestion  of  three  more  chairs 
in  partial  ruin.  Indeed,  there  is  an  opulence  of  archi- 
tectural and  monumental  forms  in  this  divine  abyss  such 
as  one  has  never  before  dreamed  of  seeing  wrought  out  by 
the  blind  forces  of  nature.  These  forces  have  here  fore- 
shadowed all  the  noblest  architecture  of  the  world.  Many 
of  the  vast  carved  and  ornamental  masses  which  diversify 
the  canon  have  been  fitly  named  temples,  as  Shiva^s  temple, 
a  mile  high,  carved  out  of  the  red  carboniferous  limestone, 
and  remarkably  symmetrical  in  its  outlines.  Near  it  is 
the  temple  of  Isis,  the  temple  of  Osiris,  the  Buddha  temple, 
the  Horus  temple,  and  the  Pyramid  of  Cheops.  Farther  to 
the  east  is  the  Diva  temple,  the  Brahma  temple,  the  temple 
of  Zoroaster,  and  the  tomb  of  Odin.  Indeed,  everywhere 
there  are  suggestions  of  temples  and  tombs,  pagodas  and 
pyramids,  on  a  scale  that  no  work  of  human  hands  can 
rival.  "  The  grandest  objects,"  says  Captain  Dutton,  "  are 
merged  in  a  congregation  of  others  equally  grand."  With 
the  wealth  of  form  goes  a  wealth  of  color.  Never,  I  venture 
to  say,  were  reds  and  browns  and  grays  and  vermilions 
more  appealing  to  the  eye  than  they  are  as  they  softly 
glow  in  this  great  canon.  The  color  scheme  runs  from  the 
dark,  somber  hue  of  the  gneiss  at  the  bottom,  up  through 
the  yellowish-brown  of  the  Cambrian  layers,  and  on  up 


SPECIMENS  OF  DESCRIPTION  231 

through  seven  or  eight  broad  bands  of  varying  tints  of 
red  and  vermilion,  to  the  broad  yellowish-gray  at  the  top. 

One  of  the  smaller  of  these  many  geologic  temples  is 
called  the  temple  of  Isis.  How  it  seems  to  be  resisting  the 
siege  of  time,  throwing  out  its  salients  here  and  there,  and 
meeting  the  onset  of  the  foe  like  a  military  engineer!  It 
is  made  up  of  four  stories,  and  its  height  is  about  2,500 
feet.  The  finish  at  the  top  is  a  line  of  heavy  wall  probably 
one  hundred  feet  high.  The  lines  of  many  of  these  natural 
temples  or  fortresses  are  still  more  lengthened  and  attenu- 
ated, appearing  like  mere  skeletons  of  their  former  selves. 
The  forms  that  weather  out  of  the  formation  above  this, 
the  Permian,  appear  to  be  more  rotund,  and  tend  more  to 
domes  and  rounded  hills. 

One^s  sense  of  the  depths  of  the  canon  is  so  great  that 
it  almost  makes  one  dizzy  to  see  the  little  birds  fly  out  over 
it,  or  plunge  down  into  it.  One  seemed  to  fear  that  they, 
too,  would  get  dizzy  and  fall  to  the  bottom.  We  watched 
a  line  of  tourists  on  mules  creeping  along  the  trail  across 
the  inner  plateau,  and  the  unaided  eye  had  trouble  to  hold 
them;  they  looked  like  little  red  ants.  The  eye  has  more 
difficulty  in  estimating  objects  and  distances  beneath  it 
than  when  they  are  above  or  on  a  level  with  it,  because  it 
is  so  much  less  familiar  with  depth  than  with  height  or 
lateral  dimensions. 


IV 

NARRATION 

1.   NATURE  OF  NARRATIVE  WRITING 

Broadly  speaking,  narration  may  be  defined  as  that 
kind  of  composition  in  which  the  main  purpose  is  to 
set  forth  action  manifesting  itself  in  a  succession  of 
events.  It  is,  perhaps,  the  commonest  kind  of  writ- 
ing. In  fact,  it  may  be  regarded  as  the  typical  liter- 
ary form.  It  is  the  oldest  of  all  literary  forms,  and 
it  seems  to  have  a  much  greater  hold  upon  man's  in- 
terest than  any  other  form.  For  some  reason  or 
other,  we  are  more  interested  in  what  men  do  than 
in  what  they  say.  The  works  which  have  held  men's 
attention  longest,  and  have  probably  had  the  most 
influence,  have  been  works  which  have  dealt  mainly 
with  action,  with  what  has  happened  to  man,  either 
in  the  world  of  actuality  or  in  that  scarcely  less  real 
world,  the  world  of  imagination ;  and  it  is  hardly  too 
much  to  say  that  no  work  wherein  action  plays  but 
a  small  part  can  have  much  chance  of  being  per- 
manently interesting. 

The  forms  which  narration  may  assume  are  numer- 
ous. Most  representative  of  the  type  nowadays,  per- 
haps, is  the  novel,  under  which  term  we  may  include 
all  those  narratives  which  deal  with  imaginary  events 


NATURE  OF  NARRATIVE  WRITING         233 

and  characters,  or  which  do  not  profess  to  be  bound 
to  any  strict  observance  of  literal  truth.  When  the 
events  set  forth  are  such  as  have  actually  happened 
and  the  characters  are  real,  we  have,  of  course,  either 
history  or  biography. 

In  its  essential  nature,  however,  narration  is  the 
same  whether  it  deals  with  fact  or  with  fiction.  The 
method  of  treating  events  depends  in  a  very  slight 
degree  upon  whether  those  events  are  real  or  imagi- 
nary. A  novel,  for  instance,  may  take  the  form  of  a 
biography  and  be  indistinguishable  from  it  except 
on  the  score  of  conformity  to  fact.  History  and  biog- 
raphy can  be  differentiated  from  fiction  only  by  their 
aim  or  purpose.  Their  purpose  being,  in  the  main, 
to  convey  information,  they  must  give  an  exact  ac- 
count of  what  has  happened,  and  can  adapt  facts 
only  in  so  far  as  such  adaptation  is  consistent  with 
a  truthful  presentation  of  the  events  recorded.  In 
fiction  there  is  no  such  limitation.  Here  the  writer  *s 
facts  are,  or  may  be,  purely  imaginary,  and  can  be 
adapted  at  will,  provided  they  are  kept  in  harmony 
with  each  other.  The  novelist  appeals  not  so  much 
to  the  understanding  as  to  the  imagination  and  the 
emotions.  His  aim  is  to  please,  and  he  is  bound  only 
by  the  laws  of  consistency  and  of  beauty,  the  observ- 
ance of  which  is  for  him  a  necessity  if  he  would 
please.  In  short,  while  the  historian  and  the  biogra- 
pher are  bound  to  the  observance  of  specific  truth, 
the  writer  of  fiction  is  bound  to  the  observance  of 
general  truth  only. 

The  simplest  kind  of  narration  is  that  of  the 
chronicle  or  diary  kind.    Here  the  interest  is  expected 


234  NARRATION 

to  be  centered  in  the  events  themselves,  and  not  in 
any  particular  sequence  or  arrangement  of  them.  Nar- 
ration of  this  kind,  however,  can  usually  pretend  to 
little  or  no  artistic  quality.  When  we  speak  of  narra- 
tion as  a  form  of  art,  we  have  in  mind  those  writings 
wherein  the  events  recorded  are  connected  in  a  series 
so  as  to  form  a  unified  whole,  in  which,  rather  than 
in  the  separate  events,  the  interest  of  the  reader  cen- 
ters itself.  For  narration  of  this  higher  or  more 
artistic  kind,  three  things  are  necessary, — characters, 
action  leading  to  some  definite  end,  and  setting. 

2.   SETTING 

Strictly  speaking,  setting  should,  perhaps,  be  classed 
as  description  in  narration,  rather  than  as  an  element 
of  narration  proper,  whose  concern  is  primarily  with 
character  and  action.  Setting  in  a  narrative  is  simply 
the  background  or  scene  in  which  the  characters  are 
placed.  A  character  must  have  a  local  habitation 
and  a  name,  even  if  it  be  only  a  general  one;  and 
events  must  happen  in  time  and  space.  Whatever 
the  narrative  writer  tells  us  about  the  environment 
of  his  characters,  or  about  the  time,  place,  or  circum- 
stances of  the  action,  constitutes  the  setting  of  his 
narrative. 

The  usefulness  of  setting  in  a  narrative  is  appar- 
ent. Without  it,  there  would  be  an  air  of  unreality 
about  everything  in  the  story.  Setting  serves  to  give 
definiteness  to  the  narrative,  and  to  throw  the  char- 
acters into  relief.  A  certain  amount  of  it  is  neces- 
sary in  every  narrative;  but  it  should  always  be 


SETTING  235 

strictly  subordinated  to  the  action  and  characteriza- 
tion, since  these  are  the  things  of  fundamental  im- 
portance in  narration.  Long  descriptions  of  scenery 
are  apt  to  prove  tedious  to  the  reader,  and  should 
therefore  be  avoided. 

The  most  natural  place  for  the  setting  of  a  narra- 
tive is  at  the  beginning,  though  it  may  be  placed  any- 
where, according  as  the  occasion  demands.  A  passage 
from  the  opening  of  Poe  's  Oold  Bug  will  illustrate  the 
use  of  setting  at  the  beginning  of  the  narrative : 

Many  years  ago,  I  contracted  an  intimacy  with  a  Mr. 
William  Legrand.  He  was  of  an  ancient  Huguenot  family, 
and  had  once  been  wealthy;  but  a  series  of  misfortunes  had 
reduced  him  to  want.  To  avoid  the  mortifications  conse- 
quent upon  his  disasters,  he  left  New  Orleans,  the  city  of 
his  forefathers,  and  took  up  his  residence  at  Sullivan's 
Island,  near  Charleston,  South  Carolina. 

This  island  is  a  very  singular  one.  It  consists  of  little 
else  than  the  sea  sand,  and  is  about  three  miles  long.  Its 
breadth  at  no  point  exceeds  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  It  is  sep- 
arated from  the  mainland  by  a  scarcely  perceptible  creek, 
oozing  its  way  through  a  wilderness  of  reeds  and  slime, 
a  favorite  resort  of  the  marsh-hen.  The  vegetation,  as  might 
be  supposed,  is  scant,  or  at  least  dwarfish.  No  trees  of 
any  magnitude  are  to  be  seen.  Near  the  western  extremity, 
where  Fort  Moultrie  stands,  and  where  are  some  miserable 
frame  buildings,  tenanted,  during  summer,  by  the  fugitives 
from  Charleston  dust  and  fever,  may  be  found,  indeed,  the 
bristly  palmetto;  but  the  whole  island,  with  the  exception 
of  this  western  point,  and  a  line  of  hard,  white  beach  on 
the  sea-coast,  is  covered  with  a  dense  undergrowth  of  the 
sweet  myrtle  so  much  prized  by  the  horticulturists  of  Eng- 
land.    The  shrub  here  often  attains  the  height  of  fifteen 


236  NARRATION 

or  twenty  feet,  and  forms  an  almost  impenetrable  coppice, 
burthening  the  air  with  its  fragrance. 

In  the  inmost  recesses  of  this  coppice,  not  far  from  the 
eastern  or  more  remote  end  of  the  island,  Legrand  had  built 
himself  a  small  hut,  which  he  occupied  when  I  first,  by  mere 
accident,  made  his  acquaintance.  .  .  .  His  chief  amuse- 
ments were  gunning  and  fishing,  or  sauntering  along  the 
beach  and  through  the  myrtles,  in  quest  of  shells  or  entomo- 
logical specimens — his  collection  of  the  latter  might  have 
been  envied  by  a  Swammerdam.  In  these  excursions  he 
was  usually  accompanied  by  an  old  negro,  called  Jupiter, 
who  had  been  manumitted  before  the  reverses  of  the  family, 
but  who  could  be  induced,  neither  by  threats  nor  by  prom- 
ises, to  abandon  what  he  considered  his  right  of  attendance 
upon  the  footsteps  of  his  young  "  Massa  Will."  .  .  . 

The  winters  in  the  latitude  of  SuUivan^s  Island  are  seldom 
very  severe,  and  in  the  fall  of  the  year  it  is  a  rare  event 
indeed  when  a  fire  is  considered  necessary.  About  the 
middle  of  October,  18 — ,  there  occurred,  however,  a  day 
of  remarkable  chilliness.  Just  before  sunset  I  scrambled  my 
way  through  the  evergreens  to  the  hut  of  my  friend,  whom 
I  had  not  visited  for  several  weeks — ^my  residence  being  at 
that  time  in  Charleston,  a  distance  of  nine  miles  from  the 
island,  while  the  facilities  of  passage  and  repassage  were 
very  far  behind  those  of  the  present  day.  Upon  reaching 
the  hut  I  rapped,  as  was  my  custom,  and  getting  no  reply, 
sought  for  the  key  where  I  knew  it  was  secreted,  unlocked 
the  door  and  went  in.  A  fine  fire  was  blazing  upon  the 
hearth.  It  was  a  novelty,  and  by  no  means  an  ungrateful 
one.  I  threw  off  an  overcoat,  took  an  arm-chair  by  the 
crackling  logs,  and  waited  patiently  the  arrival  of  my  hosts. 

3.   CHARACTERIZATION 

In  the  center  of  every  event  or  incident  that  be- 
comes material  for  the  narrator  is  an  actor  or  char- 


CHARACTERIZATION  237 

acter.  A  story  without  a  character  of  some  kind 
is  just  as  much  of  an  impossibility  as  a  story  without 
action.  It  is  sometimes  a  question  which  of  these 
two  things — the  character  or  the  incident — interests 
us  most.  For  many,  undoubtedly,  it  is  the  incident. 
Stevenson,  though  with  perhaps  just  a  touch  of  ex- 
aggeration, remarks  that  "  It  is  not  character  but  in- 
cident that  wooes  us  out  of  our  reserve.  Something 
happens  as  we  desire  to  have  it  happen  to  ourselves; 
some  situation,  that  we  have  long  dallied  with  in  fancy, 
is  realized  in  the  story  with  enticing  and  appropriate 
details.  Then  we  forget  the  characters ;  then  we  push 
the  hero  aside;  then  we  plunge  into  the  tale  in  our 
own  person  and  bathe  in  fresh  experience ;  and  then, 
and  then  only,  do  we  say  we  have  been  reading  a 
romance. ' '  ^ 

It  is  only  in  the  type  of  narrative  we  call  romance, 
however,  that  the  action  is  apt  to  be  of  more  conse- 
quence than  the  characterization.  In  the  ordinary 
novel  and  in  most  short  stories  of  the  modern  variety, 
characterization,  if  it  is  not  the  predominant  feature, 
is  likely  to  be  at  least  as  important  as  action.  After 
all,  it  does  not  matter  very  much  whether  we  say 
that  the  one  or  the  other  should  predominate:  the 
two  things  are,  in  a  certain  sense,  but  different  aspects 
of  the  same  thing;  they  are  complementary  to  each 
other,  and  either  may  properly  be  given  preeminence. 
The  point  to  note  here  especially  is  that  the  novice  in 
the  art  of  fiction  is  not  very  likely  to  over-emphasize 
the  element  of  characterization.  On  the  contrary,  he 
*  See  A  Gossip  on  Romance. 


238  NARRATION 

is  rather  apt  to  err  in  the  opposite  direction,  and  pay- 
too  little  attention  to  his  characters. 

To  invest  his  characters  with  the  semblance  of  life, 
the  novelist  has  to  have,  of  course,  some  spark  of  crea- 
tive genius ;  and  if  he  is  lacking  in  this  respect,  there 
is  little  hope  for  him.  Still,  no  amateur  need  be  de- 
terred from  trying  his  hand  at  story-writing  because 
he  has  not  the  genius  of  a  Thackeray  or  a  Dickens; 
intelligence  and  painstaking  care  will  accomplish  a 
good  deal. 

The  first  thing  to  be  done  in  beginning  a  narrative 
is  to  determine  whose  story  it  is  to  be.  In  every  nar- 
rative, there  must  be  one  character,  or  at  least  one 
small  group  of  characters,  in  whom  the  action  centers. 
It  will  become  the  business  of  the  narrator,  then,  to 
bring  this  character,  or  group  of  characters,  forward 
and  keep  all  the  others,  relatively  speaking,  in  the 
background.  The  next  thing  to  be  done,  if  the  char- 
acters are  to  be  made  life-like,  is  for  the  narrator  to 
try  to  realize  his  characters, — that  is  to  say,  see  them 
in  his  mind's  eye  as  if  they  were  actually  in  his 
presence.  Unless  he  can  do  this,  he  is  not  likely  to 
make  his  readers  feel  that  they  are  real.  Of  course 
the  degree  of  individuality  a  character  should  have 
will  depend  somewhat  upon  the  nature  of  the  story. 
In  some  narratives, — as  for  example  in  Hawthorne's 
Ambitious  Guest,  given  in  the  selections  below, — the 
aim  of  the  writer  is  to  present  types  rather  than  in- 
dividuals. For  the  most  part,  however,  the  characters 
in  a  story  should  be  real,  flesh-and-blood  persons, — 
persons  such  as  we  might  actually  meet  in  real  life. 

The  ways  in  which  a  narrator  may  delineate  char- 


CHARACTERIZATION  239 

acter  are  various.  Following  more  or  less  closely 
the  descriptive  method,  he  may  portray  his  characters 
directly  by  telling  us  what  they  are  like,  or  indirectly 
by  telling  us  what  they  have  said  and  done ;  or  again, 
adopting  the  dramatic  method,  he  may  make  them  re- 
veal, through  their  own  words  and  actions,  their  in- 
dividuality themselves,  as  persons  do  in  real  life.  The 
last  way  is  undoubtedly  the  best,  since  it  is  the  most 
natural;  but  it  is  seldom  used  alone.  Ordinarily,  a 
writer  will  give  us  a  hint  as  to  what  his  characters 
are  like,  then  place  them  before  us  acting  and  talking, 
and  thus  allow  us  to  judge  of  them  for  ourselves. 

Observe  how  Stevenson,  in  the  following  passage, 
for  example,  first  gives  us  a  general  notion  of  Dr. 
Desprez,  and  then  follows  it  up  with  a  conversation 
between  the  Doctor  and  the  waif,  Jean-Marie, — a 
conversation  admirable  for  the  revelation  it  gives  us 
of  both  characters : 

Dr.  Desprez  always  rose  early.  Before  the  smoke  arose, 
before  the  first  cart  rattled  over  the  bridge  to  the  day's 
labor  in  the  fields,  he  was  to  be  found  wandering  in  his 
garden.  Now  he  would  pick  a  bunch  of  grapes;  now  he 
would  eat  a  big  pear  under  the  trellis;  now  he  would  draw 
all  sorts  of  fancies  on  the  path  with  the  end  of  his  cane; 
now  he  would  go  down  and  watch  the  river  running  endlessly 
past  the  timber  landing-place  at  which  he  moored  his  boat. 
There  was  no  time,  he  used  to  say,  for  making  theories 
like  the  early  morning.  "  I  rise  earlier  than  any  one  else 
in  the  village,"  he  once  boasted.  "  It  is  a  fair  consequence 
that  I  know  more  and  wish  to  do  less  with  my  knowledge." 

The  morning  after  he  had  been  summoned  to  the  dying 
mountebank,  the  Doctor  visited  the  wharf  at  the  tail  of  his 


240  NARRATION 

garden,  and  had  a  long  look  at  the  running  water.  This 
he  called  prayer;  but  whether  his  adorations  were  addressed 
to  the  goddess  Hygeia  or  some  more  orthodox  deity,  never 
plainly  appeared.  For  he  had  uttered  doubtful  oracles, 
sometimes  declaring  that  a  river  was  the  type  of  bodily 
health,  sometimes  extolling  it  as  the  great  moral  preacher, 
continually  preaching  peace,  continuity,  and  diligence  to 
man's  tormented  spirits.  After  he  had  watched  a  mile  or 
so  of  the  clear  water  running  by  before  his  eyes,  seen 
a  fish  or  two  come  to  the  surface  with  a  gleam  of  silver, 
and  sufficiently  admired  the  long  shadows  of  the  trees  fall- 
ing half  across  the  river  from  the  opposite  bank,  with 
patches  of  moving  sunlight  in  between,  he  strolled  once 
more  up  the  garden  and  through  his  house  into  the  street, 
feeling  cool  and  renovated. 

On  one  of  the  posts  before  Tentaillon's  carriage  entry  he 
espied  a  little  dark  figure  perched  in  a  meditative  attitude, 
and  immediately  recognized  Jean-Marie. 

"  Aha ! "  he  said,  stopping  before  him  humorously,  with 
a  hand  on  either  knee.  "  So  we  rise  early  in  the  morning, 
do  we?  It  appears  to  me  that  we  have  all  the  vices  of 
a  philosopher." 

The  boy  got  to  his  feet  and  made  a  grave  salutation. 

"  And  how  is  our  patient  ?  "  asked  Desprez. 

It  appeared  the  patient  was  about  the  same. 

"And  why  do  you  rise  early  in  the  morning?"  he  pur- 
sued. 

Jean-Marie,  after  a  long  silence,  professed  that  he  hardly 
knew. 

"You  hardly  know?"  repeated  Desprez.  "We  hardly 
know  anything,  my  man,  until  we  try  to  learn.  Interrogate 
your  consciousness.  Come,  push  me  this  inquiry  home.  Do 
you  like  it  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  boy  slowly ;  "  yes,  I  like  it." 


CHARACTERIZATION  241 

"  And  why  do  you  like  it?  "  continued  the  Doctor.  "  (We 
are  now  pursuing  the  Soeratic  method.)  Why  do  you  like 
it?" 

"  It  is  quiet/'  answered  Jean -Marie ;  "  and  I  have  nothing 
to  do;  and  then  I  feel  as  if  I  were  good." 

Dr.  Desprez  took  a  seat  at  the  opposite  side.  He  was 
beginning  to  take  an  interest  in  the  talk,  for  the  boy  plainly 
thought  before  he  spoke,  and  tried  to  answer  truly.  "It 
appears  you  have  a  taste  for  feeling  good,"  said  the 
Doctor.  "  Now,  there  you  puzzle  me  extremely ;  for  I 
thought  you  said  you  were  a  thief;  and  the  two  are  in- 
compatible." 

"  Is  it  very  bad  to  steal?  "  asked  Jean-Marie. 

"  Such  is  the  general  opinion,  little  boy,"  replied  the 
Doctor. 

"  No,  but  I  mean  as  I  stole,"  exclaimed  the  other.  "  For 
I  had  no  choice.  I  think  it  is  surely  right  to  have  bread; 
it  must  be  right  to  have  bread,  there  comes  so  plain  a  want 
of  it.  And  then  they  beat  me  cruelly  if  I  returned  with 
nothing,"  he  added.  "I  was  not  ignorant  of  right  and 
wrong;  for  before  that  I  had  been  well  taught  by  a  priest, 
who  was  very  kind  to  me."  (The  Doctor  made  a  horrible 
grimace  at  the  word  "  priest.")  "  But  it  seemed  to  me, 
when  one  had  nothing  to  eat  and  was  beaten,  it  was  a 
different  affair.  I  would  not  have  stolen  for  tartlets,  I 
believe;  but  any  one  would  steal  for  baker's  bread." 

"  And  so  I  suppose,"  said  the  Doctor,  with  a  rising  sneer, 
"  you  prayed  God  to  forgive  you,  and  explained  the  case  to 
him  at  length." 

"  Why,  sir?  "  asked  Jean-Marie.    "  I  do  not  see." 

"Your  priest  would  see,  however,"  retorted  Desprez. 

"  Would  he  ?  "  asked  the  boy,  troubled  for  the  first  time. 
"  I  should  have  thought  God  would  have  known." 

"Eh?"  snarled  the  Doctor. 

"  I  should  have  thought  God  would  have  understood  me," 


242  NARRATION 

replied  the  other.  "You  do  not,  I  see;  but  then  it  was 
God  that  made  me  think  so,  was  it  not  ?  " 

"Little  boy,  little  boy,"  said  Dr.  Desprez,  "I  told  you 
already  you  had  the  vices  of  philosophy;  if  you  display  the 
virtues  also,  I  must  go.  I  am  a  student  of  the  blessed  laws 
of  health,  an  observer  of  plain  and  temperate  nature  in  her 
common  walks;  and  I  cannot  preserve  my  equanimity  in 
presence  of  a  monster.     Do  you  understand?" 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  boy. 

"  I  will  make  my  meaning  clear  to  you,"  replied  the 
Doctor.  "Look  there  at  the  sky — behind  the  belfry  first, 
where  it  is  so  light,  and  then  up  and  up,  turning  your  chin 
back,  right  to  the  top  of  the  dome,  where  it  is  already  as 
blue  as  at  noon.  Is  not  that  a  beautiful  color?  Does  it 
not  please  the  heart?  We  have  seen  it  all  our  lives,  until 
it  has  grown  in  with  our  familiar  thoughts.  Now," 
changing  his  tone,  "  suppose  that  sky  to  become  suddenly  of 
a  live  and  fiery  amber,  like  the  color  of  clear  coals,  and 
growing  scarlet  toward  the  top — I  do  not  say  it  would 
be  any  the  less  beautiful;  but  would  you  like  it  as 
well?" 

"  I  suppose  not,"  answered  Jean-Marie. 

"Neither  do  I  like  you,"  returned  the  Doctor,  roughly. 
"  I  hate  all  odd  people,  and  you  are  the  most  curious  little 
boy  in  all  the  world." 

Jean-Marie  seemed  to  ponder  for  a  while,  and  then  raised 
his  head  again  and  looked  over  at  the  Doctor  with  an  air  of 
candid  inquiry.  "  But  are  not  you  a  very  curious  gentle- 
man ?  "  he  asked. 

The  Doctor  threw  away  his  stick,  bounded  on  the  boy, 
clasped  him  to  his  bosom,  and  kissed  him  on  both  cheeks. 
"  Admirable,  admirable  imp !  "  he  cried.  "  What  a  morning, 
what  an  hour  for  a  theorist  of  forty-two!  No,"  he  con- 
tinued, apostrophizing  heaven,  "  I  did  not  know  such  boys 
existed;  I  was  ignorant  they  made  them  so;  I  had  doubted 


ACTION  243 

of  my  race;  and  now!    It  is  like,"  he  added,  picking  up 
his  stiek,  "  like  a  lovers*  meeting."  ^ 

4.  ACTION 

Characterization,  as  we  have  seen,  may  play  as 
important  a  part  in  narration  as  action.  Nevertheless, 
it  is  to  the  action  rather  than  to  the  characterization 
that  we  must  look  for  the  real  essence  of  narration. 
The  purpose  of  narration  is  not  simply  the  delineation 
of  character,  but  rather  the  presentation  of  character 
in  action.  We  may  have  character  presented  by 
means  of  description, — ^that  is,  character  in  its  static 
aspect,  so  to  speak;  character  in  its  dynamic  aspect 
can  be  properly  presented  only  by  means  of  narration. 
We  judge  a  man's  character  not  so  much  by  what  is 
said  of  him  as  by  what  he  does.  Moreover,  as  between 
his  own  word  and  deed,  we  judge  of  him  by  the  deed 
rather  than  by  the  word;  **  actions,"  so  runs  the  old 
adage,  **  speak  louder  than  words." 

The  action  of  a  narrative  may  be  either  simple  or 
complex.  It  is  simple  when  there  is  but  a  single 
thread  of  story  followed,  a  single  course  of  events 
marked  out  and  followed  uninterruptedly  to  the  end. 
It  is  complex,  on  the  other  hand,  when  several  threads 
of  story  are  taken  up,  one  after  another,  or  when 
the  main  current  of  events,  so  to  speak,  meets  with 
cross  or  counter  currents,  and  is  checked  for  a  moment 
or  deflected  from  the  course  which  it  would  otherwise 
take.  Most  short  historical  and  biographical  sketches 
are  examples  of  narratives  with  simple  action.    The 

*From  The  Treasure  of  Franchard, 


244  NARRATION 

selection  from  Franklin's  Autobiography  given  below, 
for  instance,  will  serve  as  an  illustration  of  tlie  type. 
Of  the  narrative  with  complex  action,  almost  any 
novel  will  suffice  for  an  example. 

In  all  narratives,  whether  the  action  be  simple  or 
complex,  there  must  be  unification  of  the  action.  This 
unification  is  accomplished  by  means  of  what  is  called 
plot.  All  narratives  therefore  which  are  whole, — 
that  is,  which  proceed  from  some  definite  beginning 
to  some  definite  conclusion, — ^have  plot.  The  term 
*'  plot  "  is  used  here,  of  course,  in  its  widest  possible 
sense.  In  its  narrower  and  more  usual  sense,  it  is 
applied  only  to  that  complication  or  entanglement 
of  the  course  of  action  in  a  fictitious  narrative  the 
resolution  of  which  we  expect  to  find  at  or  near  the 
end  of  the  narrative.  But  even  if  we  use  the  term 
in  this  restricted  sense  only,  no  sharp  line  of  dis- 
tinction can  be  drawn  between  those  narratives  which 
have  plot  and  those  which  have  not.  The  complica- 
tion of  the  action  may  be  so  slight  as  to  be  almost 
imperceptible. 

In  the  following  short  tale,  for  example,  we  have 
plot,  but  plot  reduced  almost  to  its  lowest  terms : 

The  Little  Match  Girl 

It  was  terribly  cold;  it  snowed  and  was  already  almost 
dark,  and  evening  came  on,  the  last  evening  of  the  year.  In 
the  cold  and  gloom  a  poor  little  girl,  bareheaded  and 
barefoot,  was  walking  through  the  streets.  When  she  left 
her  own  house  she  certainly  had  slippers  on;  but  of  what 
use  were  they?  They  were  big  slippers,  and  her  mother 
had  used  them  till  then,  so  big  were  they.    The  little  maid 


ACTION  245 

lost  them  as  she  slipped  across  the  road,  where  two  car- 
riages were  rattling  by  terribly  fast.  One  slipper  was 
not  to  be  found  again,  and  a  boy  had  seized  the  other,  and 
run  away  with  it.  He  thought  he  could  use  it  very  well  as 
a  cradle,  some  day  when  he  had  children  of  his  own.  So 
now  the  little  girl  went  with  her  little  naked  feet,  which 
were  quite  red  and  blue  with  the  cold.  In  an  old  apron 
she  carried  a  number  of  matches,  and  a  bundle  of  them  in 
her  hand.  No  one  had  bought  of  her  all  day,  and  no  one 
had  given  her  a  farthing. 

Shivering  with  cold  and  hunger,  she  crept  along,  a  picture 
of  misery,  poor  little  girl!  The  snowflakes  covered  her 
long  fair  hair,  which  fell  in  pretty  curls  over  her  neck; 
but  she  did  not  think  of  that  now.  In  all  the  windows  lights 
were  shining,  and  there  was  a  glorious  smell  of  roast  goose, 
for  it  was  New  Year's  Eve.    Yes,  she  thought  of  that ! 

In  a  comer  formed  by  two  houses,  one  of  which  pro- 
jected beyond  the  other,  she  sat  down  cowering.  She  had 
drawn  up  her  little  feet,  but  she  was  still  colder,  and  she 
did  not  dare  to  go  home,  for  she  had  sold  no  matches,  and 
did  not  bring  a  farthing  of  money.  From  her  father  she 
would  certainly  receive  a  beating,  and  besides  it  was  cold 
at  home,  for  they  had  nothing  over  them  but  a  roof  through 
which  the  wind  whistled,  though  the  largest  rents  had  been 
stopped  with  straw  and  rags. 

Her  little  hands  were  almost  benumbed  with  the  cold! 
Ah!  a  match  might  do  her  good,  if  she  could  only  draw 
one  from  the  bundle,  and  rub  it  against  the  wall,  and  warm 
her  hands  at  it.  She  drew  one  out.  R-r-atch!  how  it  sput- 
tered and  burned!  It  was  a  warm,  bright  flame,  like  a 
little  candle,  when  she  held  her  hands  over  it ;  it  was  a  won- 
derful little  light!  It  really  seemed  to  the  little  girl  as 
if  she  sat  before  a  great  polished  stove,  with  bright  brass 
feet  and  a  brass  cover.  How  the  fire  burned !  how  comforta- 
ble it  was!    But  the  little  flame  went  out,  and  the  stove 


246  NARRATION 

vanished,  and  she  had  only  the  remains  of  the  burned  match 
in  her  hand. 

A  second  was  rubbed  agaiHst  the  wall.  It  burned  up, 
and  when  the  light  fell  upon  the  wall  it  became  transparent, 
like  a  thin  veil,  and  she  could  see  through  it  into  the  room. 
On  the  table  a  snow-white  cloth  was  spread;  upon  it  stood 
a  shining  dinner  service;  the  roast  goose  smoked  gloriously, 
stuffed  with  apples  and  dried  plums.  And  what  was  still 
more  splendid  to  behold,  the  goose  hopped  down  from  the 
dish,  and  waddled  along  the  floor,  with  a  knife  and  fork 
in  its  breast,  to  the  little  girl.  Then  the  match  went  out, 
and  only  the  thick,  damp,  cold  wall  was  before  her.  She 
lighted  another  match.  Then  she  was  sitting  under  a  beau- 
tiful Christmas  tree;  it  was  greater  and  more  ornamental 
than  the  one  she  had  seen  through  the  glass  door  at  the 
rich  merchant's.  Thousands  of  candles  burned  upon  the 
green  branches,  and  colored  pictures  like  those  in  the  print 
shops  looked  down  upon  them.  The  little  girl  stretched 
forth  her  hand  toward  them;  then  the  match  went  out. 
The  Christmas  lights  mounted  higher.  She  saw  them  now 
as  stars  in  the  sky:  one  of  them  fell  down,  forming  a  long 
line  of  fire. 

"  Now  some  one  is  dying,"  thought  the  little  girl,  for 
her  old  grandmother,  the  only  person  who  had  loved  her, 
and  who  was  now  dead,  had  told  her  when  a  star  fell 
down  a  soul  mounted  up  to  God.  She  rubbed  another 
match  against  the  wall;  it  became  bright  again,  and  in  the 
brightness  the  old  grandmother  stood  clear  and  shining, 
mild  and  lovely. 

"  Grandmother !  "  cried  the  child,  "  oh !  take  me  with  you ! 
I  know  you  will  go  when  the  match  is  burned  out.  You 
will  vanish  like  the  warm  fire,  the  warm  food,  and  the  great 
glorious  Christmas  tree !  " 

And  she  hastily  rubbed  the  whole  bundle  of  matches,  for 
she  wished  to  hold  her  grandmother  fast.    And  the  matches 


ACTION  247 

burned  with  such  a  glow  that  it  became  brighter  than  in 
the  middle  of  the  day !  grandmother  had  never  been  so  large 
or  so  beautiful.  She  took  the  little  girl  in  her  arms,  and 
both  flew  in  brightness  and  joy  above  the  earth,  very,  very 
high;  and  up  there  was  neither  cold,  nor  hunger,  nor  care — 
they  were  with  God! 

But  in  the  corner,  leaning  against  the  wall,  sat  the  poor 
girl  with  red  cheeks  and  smiling  mouth,  frozen  to  death 
on  the  last  evening  of  the  Old  Year.  The  New  Year's  sun 
rose  upon  a  little  corpse !  The  child  sat  there,  stiff  and  cold, 
with  the  matches  of  which  one  bundle  was  burned.  "  She 
wanted  to  warm  herself,"  the  people  said.  No  one  imagined 
what  a  beautiful  thing  she  had  seen,  and  in  what  glory 
she  had  gone  in  with  her  grandmother  to  the  New  Year's 
Day. 

Though  there  is  little  or  nothing  of  what  is  usually 
called  plot  here,  the  causal  connection  of  the  events  is 
obvious.  From  the  very  beginning,  the  culmination — 
the  death  of  the  little  girl  by  freezing — is  foreseen, 
and  everything  in  the  tale  leads  up  to  it.  The  tale 
is  a  unit,  and  it  is  a  unit  not  simply  because  the 
events  mentioned  happened  to  one  person, — many 
things  might  have  happened  to  the  little  girl  which 
would  have  had  no  place  in  this  tale, — ^but  because 
they  have  a  direct  bearing  upon  one  another,  and 
because  all  point  in  one  direction,  namely,  to  the 
conclusion.  This  is  one  of  the  best  marks  of  a  good 
plot,  the  fact  that  everything  in  the  narrative  points 
unmistakably  to  the  conclusion,  and  that  one  feels 
when  one  reaches  the  conclusion  that  it  is  the  inevita- 
ble result  of  the  cooperation  or  conflict  of  all  the  forces 
that  have  taken  part  in  the  action. 


248  NARRATION 

It  is  evident,  therefore,  that  in  narration,  no  less 
than  in  description,  the  writer  must  select  and  arrange 
his  details  with  as  much  care  as  possible.  The  story- 
teller cannot  tell  everything  that  has  happened  to  his 
characters.  He  can  mention  only  the  significant 
things.  The  beginner,  therefore,  if  he  would  succeed 
in  the  art  of  story-telling,  should  get,  in  the  first 
place,  a  clear  conception  of  the  general  course  his 
narrative  is  to  take,  so  that  the  main  points  of  his 
story  will  stand  out  with  some  distinctness;  then  he 
should  fill  in  between  these  points  with  the  most  signifi- 
cant details  available.  Significant  details,  he  should 
remember,  moreover,  are  those,  and  those  only,  which 
serve  to  help  forward  the  plot,  or  to  give  the  reader 
a  clearer  and  better  understanding  of  the  characters 
or  situations  involved;  all  others  are  irrelevant  and 
should  be  rejected.  Irrelevant  or  unimportant  de- 
tails add  weight  without  contributing  any  correspond- 
ing strength,  and  are  therefore  a  clog  upon  the  story. 
Such  details,  also,  as  tend  to  lead  the  reader 's  interest 
away  from  the  main  thread  of  the  story  should  be 
religiously  avoided.  Digressions,  however  interesting 
in  themselves,  are  seldom  or  never  justifiable;  they 
destroy  continuity,  and  are  to  be  condemned  on  that 
score,  if  on  no  other. 

5.  ORDER  OP  EVENTS  AND  MOVEMENT 

Important  things  for  the  writer  to  determine,  as 
soon  as  he  has  clearly  in  mind  the  general  course 
his  story  is  to  take,  are  the  way  in  which  he  is  to 
begin  and  the  precise  order  in  which  the  events  of 


ORDER  OF  EVENTS  AND  MOVEMENT       249 

the  story  are  to  be  recounted.  The  natural  order  to 
follow  in  recounting  a  series  of  events  is,  of  course, 
that  in  which  the  events  themselves  happened.  This 
is  the  order,  therefore,  that  the  narrative  writer  ought, 
in  general,  to  observe.  The  novice,  at  any  rate,  had 
better  not  risk  any  departure  from  it.  To  succeed 
by  beginning  in  the  middle  of  the  story,  as  the  epic 
poets  usually  do,  with  a  striking  incident  or  situation, 
and  afterwards  going  back  and  recounting  the  events 
leading  up  to  this  point,  requires  considerable  skill 
on  the  part  of  the  writer.  One  great  difficulty  is  to 
provide  a  natural  and  easy  way  of  acquainting  the 
reader  with  what  has  happened  previous  to  the  open- 
ing scene.  Another  is  to  prevent  the  reader  *s  interest 
from  flagging  when  the  drop  is  made  from  the  com- 
paratively high  level  of  the  opening  scene  to  the  lower 
level  of  the  main  body  of  the  story.  A  writer  has 
always  to  be  on  his  guard  against  anything  like  an 
anti-climax.  Hence  it  is  much  safer  to  begin  on  a 
comparatively  low  level  and  try  to  climb  up  a  little, 
than  to  open  with  a  striking  scene  and  follow  it  up 
with  scenes  less  likely  to  attract  the  reader  ^s  attention. 
"Where  the  narrative  is  made  up  of  several  threads 
of  story  more  or  less  separate  from  one  another,  as 
is  usually  the  case  in  history  and  frequently  in  the 
novel,  the  writer  must,  of  course,  often  neglect  the 
strict  chronological  order  of  the  events  and  shift  his 
attention  now  to  this,  and  now  to  that  thread  of 
his  story.  If  this  shifting  is  done  skilfully,  no  con- 
fusion in  the  mind  of  the  reader  is  likely  to  result; 
but  it  necessarily  involves  some  slight  loss  of  vivid- 
ness in  the  narrative,  and  should  never  be  resorted  to 


250  NARRATION 

unless  it  is  unavoidable.  It  should  be  unnecessary 
to  add  tliat  where  the  writer  is  obliged  to  manage 
several  threads  of  story  in  the  same  narrative,  he 
should  be  careful  to  see  that  they  all  lead  to  the 
culmination  of  his  story.  Whether  a  narrative  begins 
with  the  first  event  in  the  series  to  be  recounted,  or 
with  some  other,  there  should  be  a  general  and  steady 
movement  forward  to  the  end.  Nothing  in  narration 
is  more  important  than  this.  Movement,  progression 
from  one  event  to  that  which  follows,  is  the  very 
essence  of  narration.  If  a  story  does  not  go  forward, 
it  is  no  story  at  all. 

Movement  may  be  retarded  by  crowding  the  narra- 
tive with  incidents  which  have  little  or  no  bearing 
upon  the  main  course  of  action,  or  by  the  introduction 
of  extended  descriptive  passages.  In  either  case  there 
is  apt  to  be  a  tax  upon  the  reader's  patience.  As 
already  said,  incidents  which  have  no  significance  for 
the  purpose  in  hand  clog  the  story,  and  for  that  reason 
should  be  avoided.  The  same  thing  may  be  said  of 
long  descriptions.  They  interrupt  the  course  of  the 
story  and  should  be  used,  if  at  all,  very  rarely.  Set- 
ting is,  to  be  sure,  an  important  element  in  a  narra- 
tive, but  it  should  always  be  kept  strictly  subordinate 
to  the  action. 

As  to  the  rate  at  which  the  events  of  a  story  should 
move,  that  will  depend,  of  course,  largely  upon  the 
scope  of  the  narrative.  In  a  novel,  for  example,  the 
movement,  as  a  rule,  is  much  more  rapid  than  in  a 
short  story,  where  the  events  have  to  be  crowded  into 
a  comparatively  brief  space  of  time.  Whatever  the 
general  rate  of  movement  in  a  narrative  may  be,  how- 


ORDER  OF  EVENTS  AND  MOVEMENT       251 

ever,  it  should  always  be  varied  somewhat,  so  that  in 
the  crises,  or  moments  of  highest  excitement,  it  will 
be  rather  more  rapid  than  in  the  quieter  scenes. 
Often,  indeed,  it  will  be  found  effective,  in  leading 
up  to  crises,  purposely  to  retard  the  movement  and 
keep  the  reader  in  suspense  for  a  moment  or  so. 
Notice  how,  in  the  following  account  of  the  start 
in  a  boat  race,  the  writer,  by  skilfully  dwelling  upon 
unimportant  details,  and  so  retarding  the  movement 
before  the  critical  moment,  the  actual  start,  heightens 
the  interest  in  that  moment: 

Hark! — the  first  gun.  The  report  sent  Tom's  heart  into 
his  mouth  again.  Several  of  the  boats  pushed  off  at  once 
into  the  stream;  and  the  crowd  of  men  on  the  bank  began 
to  be  agitated,  as  it  were,  by  the  shadow  of  the  coming 
excitement.  The  St.  Ambrose  fingered  their  oars,  put  a 
last  dash  of  grease  on  their  rowlocks,  and  settled  their  feet 
against  the  stretchers. 

"Shall  we  push  her  off?"  asked  bow. 

"  No ;  I  can  give  you  another  minute,"  said  Miller,  who 
was  sitting,  watch  in  hand,  in  the  stem ;  "  only  be  smart 
when  I  give  the  word." 

The  captain  turned  on  his  seat,  and  looked  up  the  boat. 
His  face  was  quiet,  but  full  of  confidence,  which  seemed 
to  pass  from  him  into  the  crew.  Tom  felt  calmer  and 
stronger,  as  he  met  his  eye.  "Now  mind,  boys,  don't 
quicken,"  he  said  cheerily ;  "  four  short  strokes  to  get  way 
on  her,  and  then  steady.    Here,  pass  up  the  lemon." 

And  he  took  a  sliced  lemon  out  of  his  pocket,  put  a  small 
piece  in  his  own  mouth,  and  then  handed  it  to  Blake,  who 
followed  his  example,  and  passed  it  on.  Each  man  took 
a  piece;  and  just  as  bow  had  secured  the  end,  Miller  called 
out, — 


252  NARRATION 

"  Now,  jackets  off,  and  get  her  head  out  steadily." 

The  jackets  were  thrown  on  shore,  and  gathered  up  by 
the  boatmen  in  attendance.  The  crew  poised  their  oars, 
No.  2  pushing  out  her  head,  and  the  captain  doing  the 
same  for  the  stern.  Miller  took  the  starting  rope  in  his 
hand. 

"How  the  wind  catches  her  stern,"  he  said;  "here,  pay 
out  the  rope  one  of  you.  No,  not  you — some  fellow  with 
a  strong  hand.  Yes,  you'll  do,"  he  went  on,  as  Hardy 
stepped  down  the  bank  and  took  hoM  of  the  rope ;  "  let  me 
have  it  foot  by  foot  as  I  want  it.  Not  too  quick;  make 
the  most  of  it — that'll  do.  Two  and  three,  just  dip  your 
oars  in  to  give  her  way." 

The  rope  paid  out  steadily,  and  the  boat  settled  to  her 
pla<;e.  But  now  the  wind  rose  again,  and  the  stern  drifted  in 
towards  the  bank. 

"  You  must  back  her  a  bit.  Miller,  and  keep  her  a  little 
further  out  or  our  oars  on  stroke  side  will  catch  the  bank." 

"  So  I  see;  curse  the  wind.  Back  her,  one  stroke  all. 
Back  her,  I  say ! "  shouted  Miller. 

It  is  no  easy  matter  to  get  a  crew  to  back  her  an  inch 
just  now,  particularly  as  there  are  in  her  two  men  who  have 
never  rowed  a  race  before,  except  in  the  torpids,  and  one 
who  has  never  rowed  a  race  in  his  life. 

However,  back  she  comes;  the  starting  rope  slackens  in 
Miller's  left  hand,  and  the  stroke,  unshipping  his  oar, 
pushes  the  stern  gently  out  again. 

There  goes  the  second  gun!  one  short  minute  more,  and 
we  are  off.  Short  minute,  indeed!  you  wouldn't  say  so  if 
you  were  in  the  boat,  with  your  heart  in  your  mouth  and 
trembling  all  over  like  a  man  with  the  palsy.  Those  sixty 
seconds  before  the  starting  gun  in  your  first  race — why, 
they  are  a  little  lifetime. 

"By  Jove,  we  are  drifting  in  again,"  said  Miller,  in 
horror.    The  captain  looked  grim  but  said  nothing;  it  was 


ORDER  OF  EVENTS  AND  MOVEMENT       253 

too  late  now  for  him  to  be  unshipping  again.  "  Here, 
catch  hold  of  the  long  boat-hook,  and  fend  her  off." 

Hardy,  to  whom  this  was  addressed,  seized  the  boat- 
hook,  and,  standing  with  one  foot  in  the  water,  pressed 
the  end  of  the  boat-hook  against  the  gunwale,  at  the  full 
stretch  of  his  arm,  and  so,  by  main  force,  kept  the  stern 
out.  There  was  just  room  for  the  stroke  oars  to  dip,  and 
that  was  all.  The  starting  rope  was  as  taut  as  a  harp- 
string;  will  Miller's  left  hand  hold  out? 

It  was  an  awful  moment.  But  the  coxswain,  though  al- 
most dragged  backwards  off  his  seat,  is  equal  to  the  occasion. 
He  holds  his  watch  in  his  right  hand  with  tiller  rope. 

"  Eight  seconds  more  only.  Look  out  for  the  flash.  Re- 
member, all  eyes  in  the  boat." 

There  it  comes,  at  last — ^the  flash  of  the  starting  gun. 
Long  before  the  sound  of  the  report  can  roll  up  the  river, 
the  whole  pent-up  life  and  energy  which  has  been  held  in 
leash,  as  it  were,  for  the  last  six  minutes,  is  loose,  and 
breaks  away  with  a  bound  and  a  dash  which  he  who  has 
felt  it  will  remember  for  his  life,  but  the  like  of  which, 
will  he  ever  feel  it  again?  The  starting  ropes  drop  from 
the  coxswain's  hands,  the  oars  flash  into  the  water,  and 
gleam  on  the  feather,  the  spray  flies  from  them,  and  the 
boats  leap  forward.^ 

Of  the  various  ways  in  which  the  course  of  a  narra- 
tive may  be  enlivened,  the  most  effective,  perhaps, 
is  the  employment  of  dialogue.  Apart  from  the  fact 
that  it  appeals  to  the  eye,  as  it  appears  on  the  printed 
page,  dialogue,  when  skilfully  used,  tends  to  give 
to  a  narrative  an  air  of  lifelikeness  and  reality.  On 
the  principle  that  impressions  received  at  first  hand 
are  always  more  vivid  than  those  received  at  second 

*  From  Hughes's  Tom  Brown  at  Oxford, 


254  NARRATION 

hand,  the  actual  words  used  by  a  character  in  a  story 
will  interest  the  reader  more  readily  than  any  report 
of  those  words  which  the  writer  may  give.  In  dia- 
logue the  characters  are  actually  placed  before  the 
reader.  His  imagination  is  thus  the  better  able  to 
make  them  seem  real. 

The  novice  needs  to  beware,  however,  of  the  temp- 
tation to  introduce  dialogue  into  his  narrative  merely 
for  the  sake  of  '^  making  talk."  Desultory  conversa- 
tion in  a  story  is  wearisome  in  the  extreme.  To  be 
good,  dialogue  must  have  point ;  that  is,  every  speech 
or  observation  which  a  character  makes  must  be  sig- 
nificant, must  serve  as  a  means  either  of  revealing 
the  speaker 's  own  personality,  or  of  contributing  some- 
thing to  the  action  of  the  narrative. 

The  way  in  which  a  narrative  ends  is  responsible 
for  no  small  part  of  its  success  or  failure.  The  end 
is  that  point  towards  which  the  whole  course  of  the 
iiarrative  tends  and  in  which  it  receives  completeness 
and  definiteness  of  form.  Beyond  this  point  the 
reader's  interest  should  never  be  tempted  to  go.  Not 
only  that,  but  the  reader  should  be  made  to  feel  that 
anything  added  after  the  end  is  once  reached  is  dis- 
tinctly irrelevant,  is  matter  "  belonging  to  another 
story, ' '  as  Mr.  Kipling  is  wont  to  say.  In  story-telling, 
to  go  too  far  is  as  bad  as  not  to  go  far  enough.  If  a 
story  is  not  complete,  it  is,  of  course,  unsatisfactory; 
if  it  is  more  than  complete,  it  may  be  just  as  un- 
satisfactory. 

Descriptive  details,  or  details  that  in  any  way  tend 
to  retard  the  movement  of  the  story,  should  never  be 
brought  in  near  the  end,  for,  as  a  rule,  the  movement 


ORDER  OF  EVENTS  AND  MOVEMENT   255 

should  be  more  rapid  toward  the  end  than  at  any 
other  point.  As  a  general  rule,  also,  the  end  should 
have  something  of  the  nature  of  a  climax;  that  is  to 
say,  the  emphasis  should  be  so  distributed  that  the 
interest  will  tend  to  heighten  toward  the  end  and  be 
greatest  at  or  near  the  conclusion. 


SPECIMENS  OF  NARRATION 

Franklin's  Account  of  His  Early  Studies  ^ 

From  my  infancy  I  was  passionately  fond  of  reading, 
and  all  the  money  that  came  into  my  hands  was  laid  out 
in  the  purchasing  of  books.  I  was  very  fond  of  voyages. 
My  first  acquisition  was  Bunyan's  works  in  separate  little 
volumes.  I  afterward  sold  them  to  enable  me  to  buy  R. 
Burton's  Historical  Collections.  They  were  small  chap- 
men's books,  and  cheap,  forty  volumes  in  all.  My  father's 
little  library  consisted  chiefly  of  books  in  polemic  divinity, 
most  of  which  I  read.  I  have  often  regretted  that  at  a  time 
when  I  had  such  a  thirst  for  knowledge  more  proper  books 
bad  not  fallen  in  my  way,  since  it  was  resolved  I  should  not 
be  bred  to  divinity.  There  was  among  them  Plutarch's 
Lives,  which  I  read  abundantly,  and  I  still  think  that  time 
spent  to  great  advantage.  There  was  also  a  book  of  Defoe's, 
called  An  Essay  on  Projects,  and  another  of  Dr.  Mather's, 
called  An  Essay  to  Do  Good,  which  perhaps  gave  me  a  turn 
of  thinking  that  had  an  influence  on  some  of  the  principal 
future  events  of  my  life. 

Tliis  bookish  inclination  at  length  determined  my  father 
to  make  me  a  printer,  although  he  had  already  one  son, 
James,  of  that  profession.  In  1717  my  brother  James  re- 
turned from  England,  with  a  press  and  letters,  to  set  up 
his  business  in  Boston.  I  liked  it  much  better  than  that  of 
*  From  Franklin's  Autobiography. 
256 


SPECIMENS  OF  NARRATION  257 

my  father,  but  still  had  a  hankering  for  the  sea.  To  pre- 
vent the  apprehended  effect  of  such  an  inclination,  my 
father  was  impatient  to  have  me  bound  to  my  brother.  I 
stood  out  some  time,  but  at  last  was  persuaded,  and  signed 
the  indenture,  when  I  was  yet  but  twelve  years  old.  I 
was  to  serve  an  apprenticeship  till  I  was  twenty-one  years 
of  age,  only  I  was  to  be  allowed  journeyman's  wages  during 
the  last  year.  In  a  little  time  I  made  a  great  progress  in 
the  business,  and  became  a  useful  hand  to  my  brother.  I 
now  had  access  to  better  books.  An  acquaintance  with 
the  apprentices  of  booksellers  enabled  me  sometimes  to 
borrow  a  small  one,  which  I  was  careful  to  return  soon, 
and  clean.  Often  I  sat  up  in  my  chamber  reading  the 
greatest  part  of  the  night,  when  the  book  was  borrowed 
in  the  evening,  and  to  be  returned  in  the  morning,  lest  it 
should  be  found  missing. 

After  some  time  a  merchant,  an  ingenious,  sensible  man, 
Mr.  Matthew  Adams,  who  had  a  pretty  collection  of  books, 
frequented  our  printing-office,  took  notice  of  me,  and  in- 
vited me  to  see  his  library,  and  very  kindly  proposed  to 
lend  me  such  books  as  I  chose  to  read.  I  now  took  a 
strong  inclination  for  poetry,  and  wrote  some  little  pieces. 
My  brother,  supposing  it  might  turn  to  account,  encour- 
aged me,  and  induced  me  to  compose  two  occasional  ballads. 
One  was  called  The  Light-House  Tragedy,  and  contained  an 
account  of  the  shipwreck  of  Captain  Worthilake  with  his 
two  daughters;  the  other  was  a  sailor's  song,  on  the  taking 
of  the  famous  Teach,  or  Blackbeard,  the  pirate.  They  were 
wretched  stuff,  in  street-ballad  style;  and  when  they  were 
printed,  my  brother  sent  me  about  the  town  to  sell  them. 
The  first  sold  prodigiously,  the  event  being  recent,  and  hav- 
ing made  a  great  noise.  This  success  flattered  my  vanity; 
but  my  father  discouraged  me  by  criticising  my  perform- 
ances, and  telling  me  verse-makers  were  generally  beggars. 
Thus  I  escaped  being  a  poet,  and  probably  a  very  bad 


258  NARRATION 

one;  but,  as  prose  writing  has  been  of  great  use  to  me  in 
the  course  of  my  life,  and  was  a  principal  means  of  my 
advancement,  I  shall  tell  you  how  in  such  a  situation  I 
acquired  what  little  ability  I  may  be  supposed  to  have  in 
that  way. 

There  was  another  bookish  lad  in  the  town,  John  Collins 
by  name,  with  whom  I  was  intimately  acquainted.  We 
sometimes  disputed,  and  very  fond  we  were  of  argument 
and  very  desirous  of  confuting  one  another;  which  disputa- 
tious turn,  by  the  way,  is  apt  to  become  a  very  bad  habit, 
making  people  often  extremely  disagreeable  in  company  by 
the  contradiction  that  is  necessary  to  bring  it  into  practice, 
and  thence,  besides  souring  and  spoiling  the  conversation,  it 
is  productive  of  disgusts,  and  perhaps  enmities,  with  those 
who  may  have  occasion  for  friendship.  I  had  caught  this 
by  reading  my  father's  books  of  dispute  on  religion.  Per- 
sons of  good  sense,  I  have  since  observed,  seldom  fall  into 
it,  except  lawyers,  university  men,  and  generally  men  of 
all  sorts  who  have  been  bred  at  Edinburgh. 

A  question  was  once,  somehow  or  other,  started  between 
Collins  and  me  on  the  propriety  of  educating  the  female 
sex  in  learning  and  their  abilities  for  study.  He  was  of 
opinion  that  it  was  improper  and  that  they  were  naturally 
unequal  to  it.  I  took  the  contrary  side,  perhaps  a  little  for 
dispute's  sake.  He  was  naturally  more  eloquent,  having  a 
greater  plenty  of  words,  and  sometimes,  as  I  thought,  I  was 
vanquished  more  by  his  fluency  than  by  the  strength  of  his 
reasons.  As  we  parted  without  settling  the  point  and  were 
not  to  see  one  another  again  for  some  time,  I  sat  down 
to  put  my  arguments  in  writing,  which  I  copied  fair  and  sent 
to  him.  He  answered  and  I  replied.  Three  or  four  letters 
on  a  side  had  passed,  when  my  father  happened  to  find 
my  papers  and  read  them.  Without  entering  into  the  sub- 
ject in  dispute,  he  took  occasion  to  talk  to  me  about  my 
manner  of  writing;  observed  that  though  I  had  the  advan- 


SPECIMENS  OF  NARRATION  259 

tage  of  my  antagonist  in  correct  spelling  and  pointing 
(which  he  attributed  to  the  printing-house),  I  fell  far  short 
in  elegance  of  expression,  in  method,  and  in  perspicuity, 
of  which  he  convinced  me  by  several  instances.  I  saw  the 
justice  of  his  remarks,  and  thence  grew  more  attentive  to 
my  manner  of  writing,  and  determined  to  endeavor  to  im- 
prove my  style. 

About  this  time  I  met  with  an  odd  volume  of  the  Specta- 
tor, I  had  never  before  seen  any  of  them.  I  bought  it, 
read  it  over  and  over,  and  was  much  delighted  with  it.  I 
thought  the  writing  excellent,  and  wished  if  possible  to 
imitate  it.  With  that  view  I  took  some  of  the  papers,  and 
making  short  hints  of  the  sentiments  in  each  sentence,  laid 
them  by  a  few  days,  and  then,  without  looking  at  the  book, 
tried  to  complete  the  papers  again,  by  expressing  each  hinted 
sentiment  at  length,  and  as  fully  as  it  had  been  expressed 
before,  in  any  suitable  words  that  should  occur  to  me. 
Then  I  compared  my  Spectator  with  the  original,  discovered 
some  of  my  faults,  and  corrected  them.  But  I  found  I 
wanted  a  stock  of  words,  or  a  readiness  in  recollecting  and 
using  them,  which  I  thought  I  should  have  acquired  before 
that  time,  if  I  had  gone  on  making  verses;  since  the  con- 
tinual search  for  words  of  the  same  import,  but  of  different 
length  to  suit  the  measure,  or  of  different  sound  for  the 
rhyme,  would  have  laid  me  under  a  constant  necessity  of 
searching  for  variety,  and  also  have  tended  to  fix  that 
variety  in  my  mind,  and  make  me  master  of  it.  Therefore 
I  took  some  of  the  tales  in  the  Spectator,  and  turned  them 
into  verse;  and,  after  a  time,  when  I  had  pretty  well  for- 
gotten the  prose,  turned  them  back  again. 

I  also  sometimes  jumbled  my  collection  of  hints  into 
confusion,  and  after  some  weeks  endeavored  to  reduce  them 
into  the  best  order  before  I  began  to  form  the  full  sentences 
and  complete  the  subject.  This  was  to  teach  me  method 
in  the  arrangement  of  the  thoughts.     By  comparing  my 


260  NARRATION 

work  with  the  original,  I  discovered  many  faults,  and  cor- 
rected them;  but  I  sometimes  had  the  pleasure  to  fancy 
that,  in  certain  particulars  of  small  consequence,  I  had  been 
fortunate  enough  to  improve  the  method  or  the  language, 
and  this  encouraged  me  to  think  that  I  might  in  time  come 
to  be  a  tolerable  English  writer,  of  which  I  was  extremely 
ambitious.  The  time  I  allotted  for  writing  exercises  and 
for  reading  was  at  night,  or  before  work  began  in  the 
morning,  or  on  Sundays,  when  I  contrived  to  be  in  the 
printing-house,  avoiding  as  much  as  I  could  the  constant 
attendance  at  public  worship  which  my  father  used  to  exact 
of  me,  when  I  was  under  his  care,  and  which  I  still  con- 
tinued to  consider  a  duty,  though  I  could  not  afford  time  to 
practise  it. 

When  about  sixteen  years  of  age  I  happened  to  meet 
with  a  book,  written  by  one  Tryon,  recommending  a  vege- 
table diet.  I  determined  to  go  into  it.  My  brother  being 
yet  unmarried  did  not  keep  house,  but  boarded  himself 
and  his  apprentices  in  another  family.  My  refusing  to 
eat  flesh  occasioned  an  inconvenience,  and  I  was  frequently 
chid  for  my  singularity.  I  made  myself  acquainted  with 
Tryon's  manner  of  preparing  some  of  his  dishes,  such  as 
boiling  potatoes  or  rice,  making  hasty-pudding  and  a  few 
others,  and  then  proposed  to  my  brother  that  if  he  would 
give  me  weekly  half  the  money  he  paid  for  my  board,  I 
would  board  myself.  He  instantly  agreed  to  it,  and  I  pres- 
ently found  that  I  could  save  half  what  he  paid  me.  This 
was  an  additional  fund  for  buying  of  books;  but  I  had 
another  advantage  in  it.  My  brother  and  the  rest  going 
from  the  printing-house  to  their  meals,  I  remained  there 
alone,  and  dispatching  presently  my  light  repast  (which  was 
often  no  more  than  a  biscuit  or  a  slice  of  bread,  a  handful 
of  raisins  or  a  tart  from  the  pastry-cook's,  and  a  glass  of 
water),  had  the  rest  of  the  time  till  their  return  for  study; 
in  which  I  made  the  greater  progress  from  that  greater 


SPECIMENS  OF  NARRATION  261 

clearness  of  head  and  quicker  apprehension  which  generally 
attend  temperance  in  eating  and  drinking.  Now  it  was 
that  (being  on  some  occasion  made  ashamed  of  my  ig- 
norance in  figures,  which  I  had  twice  failed  learning  when 
at  school)  I  took  Cocker's  book  on  Arithmetic,  and  went 
through  the  whole  by  myself  with  the  greatest  ease.  I  also 
read  Seller's  and  Sturny's  book  on  Navigation,  which  made 
me  acquainted  with  the  little  geometry  it  contains;  but  I 
never  proceeded  far  in  that  science.  I  read  about  this  time 
Locke  On  the  Human  Understanding,  and  The  Art  of 
Thinking,  by  Messrs.  de  Port-Royal. 

While  I  was  intent  on  improving  my  language,  I  met 
with  an  English  grammar  (I  think  it  was  Greenwood's), 
having  at  the  end  of  it  two  little  sketches  on  the  Arts  of 
Rhetoric  and  Logic,  the  latter  finishing  with  a  dispute  in 
the  Socratie  method;  and  soon  after  I  procured  Xenophon'ar 
Memorable  Things  of  Socrates,  wherein  there  are  many 
examples  of  the  same  method.  I  was  charmed  with  it, 
adopted  it,  dropped  my  abrupt  contradictions  and  positive 
argumentation,  and  put  on  the  humble  inquirer.  And 
being  then,  from  reading  Shaftesbury  and  Collins,  made  a 
doubter,  as  I  already  was  in  many  points  of  our  religious 
doctrines,  I  found  this  method  the  safest  for  myself  and 
very  embarrassing  to  those  against  whom  I  used  it;  there- 
fore I  took  delight  in  it,  practised  it  continually,  and  grew 
very  artful  and  expert  in  drawing  people  even  of  superior 
knowledge  into  concessions,  the  consequences  of  which  they 
did  not  foresee,  entangling  them  in  difficulties  out  of  which 
they  could  not  extricate  themselves,  and  so  obtaining  vic- 
tories that  neither  myself  nor  my  cause  always  deserved. 

I  continued  this  method  some  few  years,  but  gradually 
left  it,  retaining  only  the  habit  of  expressing  myself  in 
terms  of  modest  diffidence,  never  using,  when  I  advance 
anything  that  may  possibly  be  disputed,  the  words  certainly, 
undoubtedly,  or  any  others  that  give  the  air  of  positiveness 


262  NARRATION 

to  an  opinion;  but  rather  say  I  conceive,  or  apprehend,  a 
thing  to  be  so-and-so;  It  appears  to  me,  or  I  should  not 
think  it,  so-or-so,  for  such-and-such  reasons;  or,  I  imagine 
it  to  he  so;  or,  It  is  so,  if  I  am  not  mistaken.  This  habit, 
I  believe,  has  been  of  great  advantage  to  me  when  I  have 
had  occasion  to  inculcate  my  opinions,  and  persuade  men 
into  measures  that  I  have  been  from  time  to  time  engaged 
in  promoting. 

The  Chase  ^ 

After  Tete  Rouge  had  alarmed  the  camp,  no  further  dis- 
turbance occurred  during  the  night.  The  Arapahoes  did 
not  attempt  mischief,  or  if  they  did  the  wakefulness  of  the 
party  deterred  them  from  effecting  their  purpose.  The 
next  day  was  one  of  activity  and  excitement,  for  about  ten 
o'clock  the  man  in  advance  shouted  the  gladdening  cry 
of  buffalo!  buffalo!  and  in  the  hollow  of  the  prairie  just 
below  us,  a  band  of  bulls  were  grazing.  The  temptation 
was  irresistible,  and  Shaw  and  I  rode  down  upon  them. 
We  were  badly  mounted  on  our  traveling  horses,  but  by 
hard  lashing  we  overtook  them,  and  Shaw,  running  along- 
side of  a  bull,  shot  into  him  both  balls  of  his  double- 
barreled  gun.  Looking  around  as  I  galloped  past  I  saw  the 
bull  in  his  mortal  fury  rushing  again  and  again  upon  his 
antagonist,  whose  horse  constantly  leaped  aside,  and  avoided 
the  onset.  My  chase  was  more  protracted,  but  at  length 
I  ran  close  to  the  bull  and  killed  him  with  my  pistols. 
Cutting  off  the  tails  of  our  victims  by  way  of  trophy,  we 
rejoined  the  party  in  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  we 
left  it.  Again  and  again  that  morning  rang  out  the  same 
welcome  cry  of  buffalo!  buffalo!  Every  few  moments,  in  the 
broad  meadows  along  the  river,  we  would  see  bands  of  bulls, 
who,  raising  their  shaggy  heads,  would  gaze  in  stupid  amaze- 

*  From  Parkman'a  Oregon  Trail, 


SPECIMENS  OF  NARRATION  263 

merit  at  the  approaching  horsemen,  and  then  breaking  into 
a  clumsy  gallop,  would  file  off  in  a  long  line  across  the 
trail  in  front,  toward  the  rising  prairie  on  the  left.  At  noon 
the  whole  plain  before  us  was  alive  with  thousands  of  buf- 
falo— ^buUs,  cows,  and  calves — all  moving  rapidly  as  we  drew 
near;  and  far-off  beyond  the  river  the  swelling  prairie  was 
darkened  with  them  to  the  very  horizon.  The  party  was  in 
gayer  spirits  than  ever.  We  stopped  for  a  "  nooning  "  near 
a  grove  of  trees  by  the  river-side. 

"  Tongues  and  hump-ribs  to-morrow,"  said  Shaw,  looking 
with  contempt  at  the  venison  steaks  which  Delorier  placed 
before  us.  Our  meal  finished,  we  lay  down  under  a  tem- 
porary awning  to  sleep.  A  shout  from  Henry  Chatillon 
aroused  us,  and  we  saw  him  standing  on  the  cart-wheel, 
stretching  his  tall  figure  to  its  full  height  while  he  looked 
toward  the  prairie  beyond  the  river.  Following  the  direc- 
tion of  his  eyes,  we  could  clearly  distinguish  a  large  dark 
object,  like  the  black  shadow  of  a  cloud,  passing  rapidly 
over  swell  after  swell  of  the  distant  plain ;  behind  it  followed 
another  of  similar  appearance,  though  smaller.  Its  motion 
was  more  rapid,  and  it  drew  closer  and  closer  to  the  first. 
It  was  the  hunters  of  the  Arapahoe  camp  pursuing  a  band 
of  buffalo.  Shaw  and  I  hastily  caught  and  saddled  our 
best  horses,  and  went  plunging  through  sand  and  water  to 
the  farther  bank.  We  were  too  late.  The  hunters  had  al- 
ready mingled  with  the  herd,  and  the  work  of  slaughter  was 
nearly  over.  When  we  reached  the  ground  we  found  it 
strewn  far  and  near  with  numberless  black  carcasses,  while 
the  remnants  of  the  herd,  scattered  in  all  directions,  were 
flying  away  in  terror,  and  the  Indians  still  rushing  in 
pursuit.  Many  of  the  hunters,  however,  remained  upon 
the  spot,  and  among  the  rest  was  our  yesterday's  acquaint- 
ance, the  chief  of  the  village.  He  had  alighted  by  the  side 
of  a  cow,  into  which  he  had  shot  five  or  six  arrows,  and 
his  squaw,  who  had  followed  him  on  horseback  to  the  hunt. 


264  NARRATION 

was  giving  him  a  draught  of  water  out  of  a  canteen,  pur- 
chased or  plundered  from  some  volunteer  soldier.  Re- 
crossing  the  river,  we  overtook  the  party,  who  were  already 
on  their  way. 

We  had  scarcely  gone  a  mile  when  an  imposing  spectacle 
presented  itself.  From  the  river-bank  on  the  right,  away 
over  the  swelling  prairie  on  the  left,  and  in  front  as  far 
as  we  could  see,  extended  one  vast  host  of  buffalo.  The 
outskirts  of  the  herd  were  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile. 
In  many  parts  they  were  crowded  so  densely  together  that 
in  the  distance  their  rounded  backs  presented  a  surface  of 
uniform  blackness;  but  elsewhere  they  were  more  scattered, 
and  from  amid  the  multitude  rose  little  columns  of  dust 
where  the  buffalo  were  rolling  on  the  ground.  Here  and 
there  a  great  confusion  was  perceptible,  where  a  battle 
was  going  forward  among  the  bulls.  We  could  distinctly 
see  them  rushing  against  each  other,  and  hear  the  clattering 
of  their  horns  and  their  hoarse  bellowing.  Shaw  was  riding 
at  some  distance  in  advance  with  Henry  Chatillon.  I  saw 
him  stop  and  draw  the  leather  covering  from  his  gun. 
Indeed,  with  such  a  sight  before  us,  but  one  thing  could 
be  thought  of.  That  morning  I  had  used  pistols  in  the 
chase.  I  had  now  a  mind  to  try  the  virtue  of  a  gun. 
Delorier  had  one,  and  I  rode  up  to  the  side  of  the  cart; 
there  he  sat  under  the  white  covering,  biting  his  pipe  be- 
tween his  teeth  and  grinning  with  excitement. 

"  Lend  me  your  gun,  Delorier,"  said  I. 

"  Oui,  Monsieur,  oui,"  said  Delorier,  tugging  with  might 
and  main  to  stop  the  mule,  which  seemed  obstinately  bent 
on  going  forward.  Then  everything  but  his  moccasins  dis- 
appeared as  he  crawled  into  the  cart  and  pulled  at  the  gun 
to  extricate  it. 

"Is  it  loaded?"  I  asked. 

"  Oui,  bien  charge,  you'll  kill,  mon  bourgeois;  yes,  you'll 
kill — e'est  un  bon  fusil." 


SPECIMENS  OF  NARRATION  265 

I  handed  him  my  rifle  and  rode  forward  to  Shaw. 

"  Are  you  ready  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Come  on,"  said  I. 

"Keep  down  that  hollow,"  said  Henry,  "and  then  they 
won^t  see  you  till  you  get  close  to  them." 

The  hollow  was  a  kind  of  ravine,  very  wide  and  shallow; 
it  ran  obliquely  toward  the  buffalo,  and  we  rode  at  a 
canter  along  the  bottom  until  it  became  too  shallow;  when 
we  bent  close  to  our  horses'  necks,  and  then  finding  that  it 
could  no  longer  conceal  us,  came  out  of  it  and  rode  directly 
toward  the  herd.  It  was  within  gunshot ;  before  its  outskirts 
numerous  grizzly  old  bulls  were  scattered,  holding  guard 
over  their  females.  They  glared  at  us  in  anger  and  aston- 
ishment, walked  toward  us  a  few  yards,  and  then  turning 
slowly  around  retreated  at  a  trot,  which  afterward  broke 
into  a  clumsy  gallop.  In  an  instant  the  main  body  caught 
the  alarm.  The  buffalo  began  to  crowd  away  from  the 
point  toward  which  we  were  approaching,  and  a  gap  was 
opened  in  the  side  of  the  herd.  We  entered  it,  still  re- 
straining our  excited  horses.  Every  instant  the  tumult  was 
thickening.  The  buffalo,  pressing  together  in  large  bodies, 
crowded  away  from  us  on  every  hand.  In  front  and  on 
either  side  we  could  see  dark  columns  and  masses,  half- 
hidden  by  clouds  of  dust,  rushing  along  in  terror  and  con- 
fusion, and  hear  the  tramp  and  clattering  of  ten  thousand 
hoofs.  That  countless  multitude  of  powerful  brutes,  igno- 
rant of  their  own  strength,  were  flying  in  a  panic  from 
the  approach  of  two  feeble  horsemen.  To  remain  quiet 
longer  was  impossible. 

"Take  that  band  on  the  left,"  said  Shaw;  "I'll  take 
these  in  front." 

He  sprang  off,  and  I  saw  no  more  of  him.  A  heavy 
Indian  whip  was  fastened  by  a  band  to  my  wrist;  I  swung 
it  into  the  air  and  lashed  my  horse's  flank  with  all  the 
strength  of  my  arm.     Away  she  darted,  stretching  close 


266  NARRATION 

to  the  ground.  I  could  see  nothing  but  a  cloud  of  dust 
before  me,  but  I  knew  that  it  concealed  a  band  of  many 
hundreds  of  buffalo.  In  a  moment  I  was  in  the  midst  of 
the  cloud,  half -suffocated  by  the  dust  and  stunned  by  the 
trampling  of  the  flying  herd;  but  I  was  drunk  with  the 
chase  and  cared  for  nothing  but  the  buffalo.  Very  soon 
a  long  dark  mass  became  visible,  looming  through  the 
dust;  then  I  could  distinguish  each  bulky  carcass,  the  hoofs 
flying  out  beneath,  the  short  tails  held  rigidly  erect.  In  a 
moment  I  was  so  close  that  I  could  have  touched  them 
with  my  gun.  Suddenly,  to  my  utter  amazement,  the  hoofs 
were  jerked  upward,  the  tails  flourished  in  the  air,  and 
amid  a  cloud  of  dust  the  buffalo  seemed  to  sink  into  the 
earth  before  me.  One  vivid  impression  of  that  instant 
remains  upon  my  mind.  I  remember  looking  down  upon 
the  backs  of  several  buffalo  dimly  visible  through  the  dust. 
|We  had  run  unawares  upon  a  ravine.  At  that  moment 
I  was  not  the  most  accurate  judge  of  depth  and  width, 
but  when  I  passed  it  on  my  return,  I  found  it  about  twelve 
feet  deep  and  not  quite  twice  as  wide  at  the  bottom.  It 
was  impossible  to  stop;  I  would  have  done  so  gladly  if 
I  could;  so,  half -sliding,  half -plunging,  down  went  the 
little  mare.  I  believe  she  came  down  on  her  knees  in  the 
loose  sand  at  the  bottom;  I  was  pitched  forward  violently 
against  her  neck  and  nearly  thrown  over  her  head  among 
the  buffalo,  who,  amid  dust  and  confusion,  came  tumbling 
in  all  around.  The  mare  was  on  her  feet  in  an  instant, 
and  scrambling  like  a  cat  up  the  opposite  side.  I  thought 
for  a  moment  that  she  would  have  fallen  back  and  crushed 
me,  but  with  a  violent  effort  she  clambered  out  and  gained 
the  hard  prairie  above.  Glancing  back  I  saw  the  huge 
head  of  a  bull  clinging,  as  it  were,  by  the  forefeet  at  the 
edge  of  the  dusty  gulf.  At  length  I  was  fairly  among  the 
buffalo.  They  were  less  densely  crowded  than  before,  and 
I  could  see  nothing  but  bulls,  who  always  run  at  the  rear 


SPECIMENS  OP  NARRATION  267 

of  a  herd.  As  I  passed  amid  them  they  would  lower  their 
heads,  and  turning  as  they  ran,  attempt  to  gore  my  horse; 
but  as  they  were  already  at  full  speed  there  was  no  force 
in  their  onset,  and  as  Pauline  ran  faster  than  they,  they 
were  always  thrown  behind  her  in  the  effort.  I  soon  began 
to  distinguish  cows  amid  the  throng.  One  just  in  front  of 
me  seemed  to  my  liking,  and  I  pushed  close  to  her  side. 
Dropping  the  reins,  I  fired,  holding  the  muzzle  of  the  gun 
within  a  foot  of  her  shoulder.  Quick  as  lightning  she 
sprang  at  Pauline;  the  little  mare  dodged  the  attack,  and  I 
lost  sight  of  the  wounded  animal  amid  the  tumultuous  crowd. 
Immediately  after  I  selected  another,  and  urging  forward 
Pauline,  shot  into  her  both  pistols  in  succession.  For  a 
while  I  kept  her  in  view,  but  in  attempting  to  load  my 
gun,  lost  sight  of  her  also  in  the  confusion.  Believing  her 
to  be  mortally  wounded  and  unable  to  keep  up  with  the 
herd,  I  checked  my  horse.  The  crowd  rushed  onward.  The 
dust  and  tumult  passed  away,  and  on  the  prairie,  far 
behind  the  rest,  I  saw  a  solitary  buffalo  galloping  heavily. 
In  a  moment  I  and  my  victim  were  running  side  by  side. 
My  firearms  were  all  empty,  and  I  had  in  my  pouch  nothing 
but  rifle-bullets,  too  large  for  the  pistols  and  too  small 
for  the  gun.  I  loaded  the  latter,  however,  but  as  often  as 
I  leveled  it  to  fire,  the  little  bullets  would  roll  out 
of  the  muzzle  and  the  gun  returned  only  a  faint  report 
like  a  squib,  as  the  powder  harmlessly  exploded.  I  gal- 
loped in  front  of  the  buffalo  and  attempted  to  turn  her 
back;  but  her  eyes  glared,  her  mane  bristled,  and  lowering 
her  head,  she  rushed  at  me  with  astonishing  fierceness  and 
activity.  Again  and  again  I  rode  before  her,  and  again 
and  again  she  repeated  her  furious  charge.  But  little 
Pauline  was  in  her  element.  She  dodged  her  enemy  at 
every  rush,  until  at  length  the  buffalo  stood  still,  ex- 
hausted with  her  own  efforts;  she  panted,  and  her  tongue 
hung  lolling  from  her  jaws. 


268  NARRATION 

Riding  to  a  little  distance,  I  alighted,  thinking  to  gather 
a  handful  of  dry  grass  to  serve  the  purpose  of  wadding, 
and  load  the  gun  at  my  leisure.  No  sooner  were  my  feet 
on  the  ground  than  the  buffalo  came  bounding  in  such  a 
rage  toward  me  that  I  jumped  back  again  into  the  saddle 
with  all  possible  dispatch.  After  waiting  a  few  minutes 
more,  I  made  an  attempt  to  ride  up  and  stab  her  with  my 
knife;  but  the  experiment  proved  such  as  no  wise  man 
would  repeat.  At  length,  bethinking  me  of  the  fringes  at 
the  seams  of  my  buckskin  pantaloons,  I  jerked  off  a  few 
of  them,  and  reloading  the  gun,  forced  them  down  the  barrel 
to  keep  the  bullet  in  its  place;  then  approaching,  I  shot 
the  wounded  buffalo  through  the  heart.  Sinking  to  her 
knees,  she  rolled  over  lifeless  on  the  prairie.  To  my  aston- 
ishment I  found  that  instead  of  a  fat  cow  I  had  been 
slaughtering  a  stout  yearling  bull.  No  longer  wondering 
at  the  fierceness  he  had  shown,  I  opened  his  throat,  and 
cutting  out  his  tongue,  tied  it  at  the  back  of  my  saddle. 
My  mistake  was  one  which  a  more  experienced  eye  than 
mine  might  easily  make  in  the  dust  and  confusion  of  such 
a  chase. 

Then  for  the  first  time  I  had  leisure  to  look  at  the 
scene  around  me.  The  prairie  in  front  was  darkened  with 
the  retreating  multitude,  and  on  the  other  hand  the  buffalo 
came  filing  up  in  endless  unbroken  columns  from  the  low 
plains  upon  the  river.  The  Arkansas  was  three  or  four 
miles  distant.  I  turned  and  moved  slowly  toward  it.  A 
long  time  passed  before,  far  down  in  the  distance,  I  dis- 
tinguished the  white  covering  of  the  cart  and  the  little 
black  specks  of  horsemen  before  and  behind  it.  Drawing 
near,  I  recognized  Shaw's  elegant  tunic,  the  red  flannel 
shirt  conspicuous  far  off.  I  overtook  the  party,  and  asked 
him  what  success  he  had  met  with.  He  had  assailed  a  fat 
cow,  shot  her  with  two  bullets,  and  mortally  wounded  her. 
But  neither  of  us  were  prepared  for  the  chase  that  after- 


SPECIMENS  OF  NARRATION  269 

noon,  and  Shaw,  like  myself,  had  no  spare  bullets  in  his 
pouch;  so  he  abandoned  the  disabled  animal  to  Henry 
Chatillon,  who  followed,  dispatched  her  with  his  rifle,  and 
loaded  his  horse  with  her  meat. 

We  encamped  close  to  the  river.  The  night  was  dark, 
and  as  we  lay  down  we  could  hear  mingled  with  the  bowl- 
ings of  wolves  the  hoarse  bellowing  of  the  buffalo,  like  the 
ocean  beating  upon  a  distant  coast. 

Rip  Van  Winkle^ 

Whoever  has  made  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson  must  re- 
member the  Kaatskill  mountains.  They  are  a  dismembered 
branch  of  the  great  Appalachian  family,  and  are  seen  away 
to  the  west  of  the  river,  swelling  up  to  a  noble  height,  and 
lording  it  over  the  surrounding  country.  Every  change  of 
season,  every  change  of  weather,  indeed,  every  hour  of  the 
day,  produces  some  change  in  the  magical  hues  and  shapes 
of  these  mountains,  and  they  are  regarded  by  all  the  good 
wives,  far  and  near,  as  perfect  barometers.  When  the 
weather  is  fair  and  settled,  they  are  clothed  in  blue  and 
purple,  and  print  their  bold  outlines  on  the  clear  evening 
sky;  but,  sometimes,  when  the  rest  of  the  landscape  is 
cloudless,  they  will  gather  a  hood  of  gray  vapors  about  their 
summits,  which,  in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  will 
glow  and  light  up  like  a  crown  of  glory. 

At  the  foot  of  these  fairy  mountains,  the  voyager  may 
have  descried  the  light  smoke  curling  up  from  a  village, 
whose  shingle-roofs  gleam  among  the  trees,  just  where  the 
blue  tints  of  the  upland  melt  away  into  the  fresh  green  of 
the  nearer  landscape.  It  is  a  little  village  of  great  antiquity, 
having  been  founded  by  some  of  the  Dutch  colonists,  in 
the  early  times  of  the  province,  just  about  the  beginning 
of  the  government  of  the  good  Peter  Stuyvesant,  (may  he 

*  From  The  Sketch  Book,  by  Washington  Irving. 


270  NARRATION 

rest  in  peace!)  and  there  were  some  of  the  houses  of  the 
original  settlers  standing  within  a  few  years,  built  of  small 
yellow  bricks  brought  from  Holland,  having  latticed  win- 
dows and  gable  fronts,  surmounted  with  weather-cocks. 

In  that  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these  very  houses 
(which,  to  tell  the  precise  truth,  was  sadly  time-worn  and 
weather-beaten),  there  lived  many  years  since,  while  the 
country  was  yet  a  province  of  Great  Britain,  a  simple  good- 
natured  fellow  of  the  name  of  Rip  Van  Winkle.  He  was 
a  descendant  of  the  Van  Winkles  who  figured  so  gallantly 
in  the  chivalrous  days  of  Peter  Stuyvesant,  and  accompanied 
him  to  the  siege  of  Fort  Christina.  He  inherited,  however, 
but  little  of  the  martial  character  of  his  ancestors.  I  have 
observed  that  he  was  a  simple  good-natured  man;  he  was, 
moreover,  a  kind  neighbor,  and  an  obedient,  hen-pecked 
husband.  Indeed,  to  the  latter  circumstance  might  be  owing 
that  meekness  of  spirit  which  gained  him  such  universal 
popularity;  for  those  men  are  most  apt  to  be  obsequious 
and  conciliating  abroad,  who  are  under  the  discipline  of 
shrews  at  home.  Their  tempers,  doubtless,  are  rendered 
pliant  and  malleable  in  the  fiery  furnace  of  domestic  tribu- 
lation; and  a  curtain  lecture  is  worth  all  the  sermons  in 
the  world  for  teaching  the  virtues  of  patience  and  long- 
suffering.  A  termagant  wife  may,  therefore,  in  some  re- 
spects, be  Considered  a  tolerable  blessing;  and  if  so,  Rip 
Van  Winkle  was  thrice  blessed. 

Certain  it  is,  that  he  was  a  great  favorite  among  all  the 
good  wives  of  the  village,  who,  as  usual,  with  the  amiable 
sex,  took  his  part  in  all  family  squabbles;  and  never  failed, 
whenever  they  talked  those  matters  over  in  their  evening 
gossipings,  to  lay  all  the  blame  on  Dame  Van  Winkle.  The 
children  of  the  village,  too,  would  shout  with  joy  when- 
ever he  approached.  He  assisted  at  their  sports,  mada 
their  playthings,  taught  them  to  fly  kites  and  shoot  marbles, 
and  told  them  long  stories  of  ghosts,  witches,  and  Indians. 


SPECIMENS  OF  NARRATION  271 

Whenever  he  went  dodging  about  the  village,  he  was  sur- 
rounded by  a  troop  of  them,  hanging  on  his  skirts,  clam- 
bering on  his  back,  and  playing  a  thousand  tricks  on  him 
with  impunity ;  and  not  a  dog  would  bark  at  him  throughout 
the  neighborhood. 

The  great  error  in  Rip^s  composition  was  an  insuperable 
aversion  to  all  kinds  of  profitable  labor.  It  could  not  be 
from  the  want  of  assiduity  or  perseverance;  for  he  would 
sit  on  a  wet  rock,  with  a  rod  as  long  and  heavy  as  a 
Tartarus  lance,  and  fish  all  day  without  a  murmur,  even 
though  he  should  not  be  encouraged  by  a  single  nibble.  He 
would  carry  a  fowling-piece  on  his  shoulder  for  hours 
together,  trudging  through  woods  and  swamps,  and  up  hill 
and  down  dale,  to  shoot  a  few  squirrels  or  wild  pigeons.  He 
would  never  refuse  to  assist  a  neighbor  even  in  the  roughest 
toil,  and  was  a  foremost  man  at  all  country  frolics  for 
husking  Indian  corn,  or  building  stone-fences;  the  women 
of  the  village,  too,  used  to  employ  him  to  run  their  errands, 
and  to  do  such  little  odd  jobs  as  their  less  obliging  hus- 
bands would  not  do  for  them.  In  a  word.  Rip  was  ready 
to  attend  to  anybody^s  business  but  his  own;  but  as  to 
doing  family  duty,  and  keeping  his  farm  in  order,  he 
found  it  impossible. 

In  fact,  he  declared  it  was  of  no  use  to  work  on  his 
farm;  it  was  the  most  pestilent  little  piece  of  ground  in 
the  whole  country;  every  thing  about  it  went  wrong,  and 
would  go  wrong,  in  spite  of  him.  His  fences  were  con- 
tinually falling  to  pieces;  his  cow  would  either  go  astray, 
or  get  among  the  cabbages ;  weeds  were  sure  to  grow  quicker 
in  his  fields  than  anywhere  else;  the  rain  always  made  a 
point  of  setting  in  just  as  he  had  some  out-door  work  to 
do ;  so  that  though  his  patrimonial  estate  had  dwindled  away 
under  his  management,  acre  by  acre,  until  there  was  little 
more  left  than  a  mere  patch  of  Indian  corn  and  potatoes,  yet 
it  was  the  worst  conditioned  farm  in  the  neighborhood. 


272  NARRATION 

His  children,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild  as  if  they 
belonged  to  nobody.  His  son  Rip,  an  urchin  begotten  in  his 
own  likeness,  promised  to  inherit  the  habits,  with  the  old 
clothes  of  his  father.  He  was  generally  seen  trooping  like 
a  colt  at  his  mother's  heels,  equipped  in  a  pair  of  his 
father's  cast-off  galligaskins,  which  he  had  much  ado  to 
hold  up  with  one  hand,  as  a  fine  lady  does  her  train  in  bad 
weather. 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of  those  happy 
mortals,  of  foolish,  well-oiled  disposition,  who  take  the  world 
easy,  eat  white  bread  or  brown,  whichever  can  be  got  with 
least  thought  or  trouble,  and  would  rather  starve  on  a 
penny  than  work  for  a  pound.  If  left  to  himself,  he  would 
have  whistled  life  away  in  perfect  contentment ;  but  his  wife 
kept  continually  dinning  in  his  ears  about  his  idleness, 
his  carelessness,  and  the  ruin  he  was  bringing  on  his 
family.  Morning,  noon,  and  night,  her  tongue  was  inces- 
santly going,  and  everything  he  said  or  did  was  sure  to 
produce  a  torrent  of  household  eloquence.  Rip  had  but 
one  way  of  replying  to  all  lectures  of  the  kind,  and  that, 
by  frequent  use,  had  grown  into  a  habit.  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  shook  his  head,  cast  up  his  eyes,  but  said 
nothing.  This,  however,  always  provoked  a  fresh  volley 
from  his  wife;  so  that  he  was  fain  to  draw  off  his  forces 
and  take  to  the  outside  of  the  house — the  only  side  which, 
in  truth,  belongs  to  a  hen-pecked  husband. 

Rip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog  Wolf,  who  was 
as  much  hen-pecked  as  his  master;  for  Dame  Van  Winkle 
regarded  them  as  companions  in  idleness,  and  even  looked 
upon  Wolf  with  an  evil  eye,  as  the  cause  of  his  master's 
going  so  often  astray.  True  it  is,  in  all  points  of  spirit 
befitting  an  honorable  dog,  he  was  as  courageous  an  animal 
as  ever  scouted  the  woods — but  what  courage  can  withstand 
the  ever-during  and  all-besetting  terrors  of  a  woman's 
tongue?     The  moment  Wolf  entered  the  house  his  crest 


SPECIMENS  OF  NARRATION  273 

fell,  his  tail  drooped  to  the  ground,  or  curled  between  his 
legs,  he  sneaked  about  with  a  gallows  air,  casting  many  a 
sidelong  glance  at  Dame  Van  Winkle,  and  at  the  least 
flourish  of  a  broom-stick  or  ladle,  he  would  fly  to  the  door 
with  yelping  precipitation. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Rip  Van  Winkle  as 
years  of  matrimony  rolled  on;  a  tart  temper  never  mellows 
with  age,  and  a  sharp  tongue  is  the  only  edged  tool  that 
grows  keener  with  constant  use.  For  a  long  while  he  used 
to  console  himself,  when  driven  from  home,  by  frequenting 
a  kind  of  perpetual  club  of  the  sages,  philosophers,  and 
other  idle  personages  of  the  village;  which  held  its  sessions 
on  a  bench  before  a  small  inn,  designated  by  a  rubicund 
portrait  of  His  Majesty  George  the  Third.  Here  they  used 
to  sit  in  the  shade  through  a  long  lazy  summer's  day,  talking 
listlessly  over  village  gossip,  or  telling  endless  sleepy  stories 
about  nothing.  But  it  would  have  been  worth  any  states- 
man's money  to  have  heard  the  profound  discussions  that 
sometimes  took  place,  when  by  chance  an  old  newspaper 
fell  into  their  hands  from  some  passing  traveler.  How 
solemnly  they  would  listen  to  the  contents,  as  drawled  out 
by  Derrick  Van  Bummel,  the  school-master,  a  dapper 
learned  little  man,  who  was  not  to  be  daunted  by  the  most 
gigantic  word  in  the  dictionary,  and  how  sagely  they 
would  deliberate  upon  public  events  some  months  after  they 
had  taken  place. 

The  opinions  of  this  junto  were  completely  controlled 
by  Nicholas  Yedder,  a  patriarch  of  the  village,  and  land- 
lord of  the  inn,  at  the  door  of  which  he  took  his  seat  from 
morning  till  night,  just  moving  sufficiently  to  avoid  the 
sun  and  keep  in  the  shade  of  a  large  tree;  so  that  the 
neighbors  could  tell  the  hour  by  his  movements  as  accurately 
as  by  a  sun-dial.  It  is  true  he  was  rarely  heard  to  speak, 
but  smoked  his  pipe  incessantly.  His  adherents,  however 
(for  every  great  man  has  his  adherents),  perfectly  under- 


274  NARRATION 

stood  him,  and  knew  how  to  gather  his  opinions.  When 
any  thing  that  was  read  or  related  displeased  him,  he  was 
observed  to  smoke  his  pipe  vehemently,  and  to  send  forth 
short,  frequent  and  angry  puffs ;  but  when  pleased,  he  would 
inhale  the  smoke  slowly  and  tranquilly,  and  emit  it  in  light 
and  placid  clouds;  and  sometimes,  taking  the  pipe  from 
his  mouth,  and  letting  the  fragrant  vapor  curl  about  his 
nose,  would  gravely  nod  his  head  in  token  of  perfect  ap- 
probation. 

From  even  this  stronghold  the  unlucky  Rip  was  at  length 
routed  by  his  termagant  wife,  who  would  suddenly  break 
in  upon  the  tranquillity  of  the  assemblage  and  call  the 
members  all  to  naught;  nor  was  that  august  personage, 
Nicholas  Vedder  himself,  sacred  from  the  daring  tongue 
of  this  terrible  virago,  who  charged  him  outright  with  en- 
couraging her  husband  in  habits  of  idleness. 

Poor  Rip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  despair;  and 
his  only  alternative,  to  escape  from  the  labor  of  the  farm 
and  the  clamor  of  his  wife,  was  to  take  gun  in  hand  and 
stroll  away  into  the  woods.  Here  he  would  sometimes 
seat  himself  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  and  share  the  contents 
of  his  wallet  with  Wolf,  with  whom  he  sympathized  as  a 
fellow-sufferer  in  persecution.  "  Poor  Wolf,"  he  would  say, 
"  thy  mistress  leads  thee  a  dog's  life  of  it ;  but  never  mind, 
my  lad,  whilst  I  live  thou  shalt  never  want  a  friend  to 
stand  by  thee ! "  Wolf  would  wag  his  tail,  look  wistfully 
in  his  master's  face,  and  if  dogs  can  feel  pity  I  verily 
believe  he  reciprocated  the  sentiment  with  all  his  heart. 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind  on  a  fine  autumnal  day.  Rip 
had  unconsciously  scrambled  to  one  of  the  highest  parts  of 
the  Kaatskill  mountains.  He  was  after  his  favorite  sport 
of  squirrel  shooting,  and  the  still  solitudes  had  echoed 
and  reechoed  with  the  reports  of  his  gun.  Panting  and 
fatigued,  he  threw  himself,  late  in  the  afternoon,  on  a  green 
knoll,  covered  with  mountain  herbage,  that  crowned  the 


SPECIMENS  OF  NARRATION  275 

brow  of  a  precipice.  From  an  opening  between  the  trees  he 
could  overlook  all  the  lower  country  for  many  a  mile  of  rich 
woodland.  He  saw  at  a  distance  the  lordly  Hudson,  far, 
far  below  him,  moving  on  its  silent  but  majestic  course,  with 
the  reflection  of  a  purple  cloud,  or  the  sail  of  a  lagging 
bark,  here  and  there  sleeping  on  its  glassy  bosom,  and 
at  last  losing  itself  in  the  blue  highlands. 

On  the  other  side  he  looked  down  into  a  deep  mountain 
glen,  wild,  lonely,  and  shagged,  the  bottom  filled  with  frag- 
ments from  the  impending  cliffs,  and  scarcely  lighted  by  the 
reflected  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  For  some  time  Rip  lay 
musing  on  this  scene;  evening  was  gradually  advancing; 
the  mountains  began  to  throw  their  long  blue  shadows 
over  the  valleys;  he  saw  that  it  would  be  dark  long  before 
he  could  reach  the  village;  and  he  heaved  a  heavy  sigh 
when  he  thought  of  encountering  the  terrors  of  Dame  Van 
Winkle. 

As  he  was  about  to  descend,  he  heard  a  voice  from  a 
distance,  hallooing,  "  Rip  Van  Winkle !  Rip  Van  Winkle !  '* 
He  looked  round,  but  could  see  nothing  but  a  crow  winging 
its  solitary  flight  across  the  mountain.  He  thought  his 
fancy  must  have  deceived  him,  and  turned  again  to  descend, 
when  he  heard  the  same  cry  ring  through  the  still  evening 
air :  "  Rip  Van  Winkle !  Rip  Van  Winkle !  " — at  the  same 
time  Wolf  bristled  up  his  back,  and  giving  a  low  growl, 
skulked  to  his  master's  side,  looking  fearfully  down  into  the 
glen.  Rip  now  felt  a  vague  apprehension  stealing  over 
him;  he  looked  anxiously  in  the  same  direction,  and  per- 
ceived a  strange  figure  slowly  toiling  up  the  rocks,  and 
bending  under  the  weight  of  something  he  carried  on  his 
back.  He  was  surprised  to  see  any  human  being  in  this 
lonely  and  unfrequented  place,  but  supposing  it  to  be  some 
one  of  the  neighborhood  in  need  of  his  assistance,  he  has- 
tened down  to  yield  it. 

On  nearer  approach  he  was  still  more  surprised  at  the 


276  NARRATION 

singularity  of  the  stranger's  appearance.  He  was  a  short 
square-built  old  fellow,  with  thick  bushy  hair,  and  a  grizzled 
beard.  His  dress  was  of  the  antique  Dutch  fashion — a  cloth 
jerkin  strapped  round  the  waist — several  pair  of  breeches, 
the  outer  one  of  ample  volume,  decorated  with  rows  of 
buttons  down  the  sides,  and  bunches  at  the  knees.  He 
bore  on  his  shoulder  a  stout  keg,  that  seemed  full  of  liquor, 
and  made  signs  for  Rip  to  approach  and  assist  him  with 
the  load.  Though  rather  shy  and  distrustful  of  his  new 
acquaintance.  Rip  complied  with  his  usual  alacrity;  and 
mutually  relieving  one  another,  they  clambered  up  a  narrow 
gully,  apparently  the  dry  bed  of  a  mountain  torrent.  As 
they  ascended.  Rip  every  now  and  then  heard  long  rolling 
peals,  like  distant  thunder,  that  seemed  to  issue  out  of 
a  deep  ravine,  or  rather  cleft,  between  lofty  rocks,  toward 
which  their  rugged  path  conducted.  He  paused  for  an 
instant,  but  supposing  it  to  be  the  muttering  of  one  of 
those  transient  thunder-showers  which  often  take  place 
in  mountain  heights,  he  proceeded.  Passing  through  the 
ravine,  they  came  to  a  hollow,  like  a  small  amphitheater, 
surrounded  by  perpendicular  precipices,  over  the  brinks  of 
which  impending  trees  shot  their  branches,  so  that  you  only 
caught  glimpses  of  the  azure  sky  and  the  bright  evening 
cloud.  During  the  whole  time  Rip  and  his  companion  had 
labored  on  in  silence;  for  though  the  former  marveled 
greatly  what  could  be  the  object  of  carrying  a  keg  of 
liquor  up  this  wild  mountain,  yet  there  was  something 
strange  and  incomprehensible  about  the  unknown,  that 
inspired  awe  and  checked  familiarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheater,  new  objects  of  wonder 
presented  themselves.  On  a  level  spot  in  the  center  was 
a  company  of  odd-looking  personages  playing  at  nine-pins. 
They  were  dressed  in  a  quaint  outlandish  fashion;  some 
wore  short  doublets,  others  jerkins,  with  long  knives  in 
their  belts,  and  most  of  them  had  enormous  breeches,  of 


SPECIMENS  OF  NARRATION  277 

similar  style  with  that  of  the  guide^s.  Their  visages,  too, 
were  peculiar;  one  had  a  large  beard,  broad  face,  and  small 
piggish  eyes;  the  face  of  another  seemed  to  consist  entirely 
of  nose,  and  was  surmounted  by  a  white  sugar-loaf  hat  set 
off  with  a  little  red  cock^s  tail.  They  all  had  beards,  of 
various  shapes  and  colors.  There  was  one  who  seemed  to  be 
the  commander.  He  was  a  stout  old  gentleman,  with  a 
weather-beaten  countenance;  he  wore  a  laced  doublet,  broad 
belt  and  hanger,  high-crowned  hat  and  feather,  red  stock- 
ings, and  high-heeled  shoes,  with  roses  in  them.  The  whole 
gi'oup  reminded  Rip  of  the  figures  in  an  old  Flemish 
painting,  in  the  parlor  of  Dominie  Van  Shaick,  the  village 
parson,  and  which  had  been  brought  over  from  Holland 
at  the  time  of  the  settlement. 

What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Rip  was,  that  though 
these  folks  were  evidently  amusing  themselves,  yet  they 
maintained  the  gravest  faces,  the  most  mysterious  silence, 
and  were,  withal,  the  most  melancholy  party  of  pleasure  he 
had  ever  witnessed.  Nothing  interrupted  the  stillness  of 
the  scene  but  the  noise  of  the  balls,  which,  whenever  they 
were  rolled,  echoed  along  the  mountains  like  rumbling  peals 
of  thunder. 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached  them,  they  sud- 
denly desisted  from  their  play,  and  stared  at  him  with  such 
fixed  statue-like  gaze,  and  such  strange,  uncouth,  lack- 
luster countenances,  that  his  heart  turned  within  him,  and 
his  knees  smote  together.  His  companion  now  emptied 
the  contents  of  the  keg  into  large  flagons,  and  made  signs 
to  him  to  wait  upon  the  company.  He  obeyed  with  fear 
and  trembling;  they  quaffed  the  liquor  in  profound  silence, 
and  then  returned  to  their  game. 

By  degrees  Rip's  awe  and  apprehension  subsided.  He 
even  ventured,  when  no  eye  was  fixed  upon  him,  to  taste 
the  beverage,  which  he  found  had  much  of  the  flavor  of 
excellent  Hollands.     He  was  naturally  a  thirsty  soul,  and 


278  NARRATION 

was  soon  tempted  to  repeat  the  draught.  One  taste  pro- 
voked another;  and  he  reiterated  his  visits  to  the  flagon 
so  often  that  at  length  his  senses  were  overpowered,  his 
eyes  swam  in  his  head,  his  head  gradually  declined,  and  he 
fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

On  waking,  he  found  himself  on  the  green  knoll  whence 
he  had  first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen.  He  rubbed  his 
eyes — it  was  a  bright  sunny  morning.  The  birds  were 
hopping  and  twittering  among  the  bushes,  and  the  eagle 
was  wheeling  aloft,  and  breasting  the  pure  mountain  breeze. 
"  Surely,"  thought  Rip,  "  I  have  not  slept  here  all  night." 
He  recalled  the  occurrences  before  he  fell  asleep.  The 
strange  man  with  a  keg  of  liquor — the  mountain  ravine — 
the  wild  retreat  among  the  rocks — the  woe-begone  party 
at  nine-pins — the  flagon — "  Oh !  that  flagon !  that  wicked 
flagon ! "  thought  Rip — "  what  excuse  shall  I  make  to 
Dame  Van  Winkle !  " 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place  of  the  clean 
well-oiled  fowling-piece,  he  found  an  old  firelock  lying  by 
him,  the  barrel  incrusted  with  rust,  the  lock  falling  off, 
and  the  stock  worm-eaten.  He  now  suspected  that  the 
grave  roysters  of  the  mountain  had  put  a  trick  upon  him, 
and,  having  dosed  him  with  liquor,  had  robbed  him  of 
his  gun.  Wolf,  too,  had  disappeared,  but  he  might  have 
strayed  away  after  a  squirrel  or  partridge.  He  whistled 
after  him  and  shouted  his  name,  but  all  in  vain;  the  echoes 
repeated  his  whistle  and  shout,  but  no  dog  was  to  be  seen. 

He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last  evening's 
gambol,  and  if  he  met  with  any  of  the  party,  to  demand 
his  dog  and  gun.  As  he  rose  to  walk,  he  found  himself 
stiff  in  the  joints,  and  wanting  in  his  usual  activity.  "  These 
mountain  beds  do  not  agree  with  me,"  thought  Rip,  "and 
if  this  frolic  should  lay  me  up  with  a  fit  of  the  rheumatism, 
I  shall  have  a  blessed  time  with  Dame  Van  Winkle."  With 
some  difficulty  he  got  down  into  the  glen :  he  found  the  gully 


SPECIMENS  OF  NARRATION  279 

up  which  he  and  his  companion  had  ascended  the  preceding 
evening;  but  to  his  astonishment  a  mountain  stream  was 
now  foaming  down  it,  leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  and 
filling  the  glen  with  babbling  murmurs.  He,  however,  made 
shift  to  scramble  up  its  sides,  working  his  toilsome  way 
through  thickets  of  birch,  sassafras,  and  witch-hazel,  and 
sometimes  tripped  up  or  entangled  by  the  wild  grapevines 
that  twisted  their  coils  or  tendrils  from  tree  to  tree,  and 
spread  a  kind  of  network  in  his  path. 

At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had  opened 
through  the  cliffs  to  the  amphitheater;  but  no  traces  of  such 
opening  remained.  The  rocks  presented  a  high  impenetrable 
wall  over  which  the  torrent  came  tumbling  in  a  sheet  of 
feathery  foam,  and  fell  into  a  broad  deep  basin,  black  from 
the  shadows  of  the  surrounding  forest.  Here,  then,  poor 
Rip  was  brought  to  a  stand.  He  again  called  and  whistled 
after  his  dog;  he  was  only  answered  by  the  cawing  of  a 
flock  of  idle  crows,  sporting  high  in  air  about  a  dry  tree 
that  overhung  a  sunny  precipice;  and  who,  secure  in  their 
elevation,  seemed  to  look  down  and  scoff  at  the  poor  man^s 
perplexities.  What  was  to  be  done?  The  morning  was 
passing  away,  and  Rip  felt  famished  for  want  of  his 
breakfast.  He  grieved  to  give  up  his  dog  and  gun; 
he  dreaded  to  meet  his  wife;  but  it  would  not  do  to  starve 
among  the  mountains.  He  shook  his  head,  shouldered  the 
rusty  firelock,  and,  with  a  heart  full  of  trouble  and  anxiety, 
turned  his  steps  homeward. 

As  he  approached  the  village  he  met  a  number  of  people, 
but  none  whom  he  knew,  which  somewhat  surprised  him, 
for  he  had  thought  himself  acquainted  with  every  one  in 
the  country  round.  Their  dress,  too,  was  of  a  different 
fashion  from  that  to  which  he  was  accustomed.  They  all 
stared  at  him  with  equal  marks  of  surprise,  and  whenever 
they  cast  their  eyes  upon  him,  invariably  stroked  their 
chins.    The  constant  recurrence  of  this  gesture  induced  Rip, 


280  NARRATION 

involuntarily,  to  do  the  same,  when,  to  his  astonishment, 
he  found  his  beard  had  grown  a  foot  long! 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village.  A  troop  of 
strange  children  ran  at  his  heels,  hooting  after  him,  and 
pointing  at  his  gray  beard.  The  dogs,  too,  not  one  of  which 
he  recognized  for  an  old  acquaintance,  barked  at  him  as 
he  passed.  The  very  village  was  altered;  it  was  larger 
and  more  populous.  There  were  rows  of  houses  which  he 
had  never  seen  before,  and  those  which  had  been  his  fa- 
miliar haunts  had  disappeared.  Strange  names  were  over 
the  doors — strange  faces  at  the  windows — every  thing  was 
strange.  His  mind  now  misgave  him;  he  began  to  doubt 
whether  both  he  and  the  world  around  him  were  not  be- 
witched. Surely  this  was  his  native  village,  which  he  had 
left  but  the  day  before.  There  stood  the  Kaatskill  moun- 
tains— there  ran  the  silver  Hudson  at  a  distance — ^there 
was  every  hill  and  dale  precisely  as  it  had  always  been — 
Rip  was  sorely  perplexed — "  That  flagon  last  night," 
thought  he,  "  has  addled  my  poor  head  sadly !  " 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found  the  way  to  his 
own  house,  which  he  approached  with  silent  awe,  expecting 
every  moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 
He  found  the  house  gone  to  decay — the  roof  fallen  in,  the 
windows  shattered,  and  the  doors  off  the  hinges.  A  half- 
starved  dog  that  looked  like  Wolf  was  skulking  about  it. 
Rip  called  him  by  name,  but  the  cur  snarled,  showed  his 
teeth,  and  passed  on.  This  was  an  unkind  cut  indeed — 
"  My  very  dog,"  sighed  poor  Rip,  "  has  forgotten  me !  " 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  Dame 
Van  Winkle  had  always  kept  in  neat  order.  It  was  empty, 
forlorn,  and  apparently  abandoned.  This  desolateness  over- 
came all  his  connubial  fears — he  called  loudly  for  his  wife 
and  children — the  lonely  chambers  rang  for  a  moment  with 
his  voice,  and  then  all  again  was  silence. 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his  old  resort, 


SPECIMENS  OF  NARRATION  281 

the  village  inn — but  it  too  was  gone.  A  large  rickety 
wooden  building  stood  in  its  place,  with  great  gaping 
windows,  some  of  them  broken  and  mended  with  old  hats  and 
petticoats,  and  over  the  door  was  painted,  "the  Union 
Hotel,  by  Jonathan  Doolittle."  Instead  of  the  great  tree 
that  used  to  shelter  the  quiet  little  Dutch  inn  of  yore, 
there  now  was  reared  a  tall  naked  pole,  with  something 
on  the  top  that  looked  like  a  red  night-cap,  and  from  it 
was  fluttering  a  flag,  on  which  was  a  singular  assemblage  of 
stars  and  stripes — all  this  was  strange  and  incomprehensi- 
ble. He  recognized  on  the  sign,  however,  the  ruby  face 
of  King  George,  under  which  he  had  smoked  so  many  a 
peaceful  pipe;  but  even  this  was  singularly  metamorphosed. 
The  red  coat  was  changed  for  one  of  blue  and  buff,  a  sword 
was  held  in  the  hand  instead  of  a  scepter,  the  head  was 
decorated  with  a  cocked  hat,  and  underneath  was  painted 
in  large  characters.  General  Washington. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about  the  door,  but 
none  that  Rip  recollected.  The  very  character  of  the  people 
seemed  changed.  There  was  a  busy,  bustling,  disputatious 
tone  about  it,  instead  of  the  accustomed  phlegm  and  drowsy 
tranquillity.  He  looked  in  vain  for  the  sage  Nicholas 
Vedder,  with  his  broad  face,  double  chin,  and  fair  long 
pipe,  uttering  clouds  of  tobacco-smoke  instead  of  idle 
speeches;  or  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  doling  forth 
the  contents  of  an  ancient  newspaper.  In  place  of  these, 
a  lean,  bilious-looking  fellow,  with  his  pockets  full  of 
handbills,  was  haranguing  vehemently  about  rights  of  citi- 
zens— elections — members  of  congress — liberty — Bunker's 
Hill — heroes  of  seventy-six — ^and  other  words,  which  were 
a  perfect  Babylonish  jargon  to  the  bewildered  Van  Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long  grizzled  beard,  his 
rusty  fowling-piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  an  army  o£ 
women  and  children  at  his  heels,  soon  attracted  the  atten- 
tion of  the  tavern  politicians.     They  crowded  round  him, 


282  NARRATION 

eyeing  him  from  head  to  foot  with  great  curiosity.  The 
orator  bustled  up  to  him,  and,  drawing  him  partly  aside, 
inquired  "on  which  side  he  voted?"  Rip  stared  in  vacant 
stupidity.  Another  short  but  busy  little  fellow  pulled  him 
by  the  arm,  and,  rising  on  tiptoe,  inquired  in  his  ear, 
"  Whether  he  was  Federal  or  Democrat  ?  "  Rip  was  equally 
at  a  loss  to  comprehend  the  question;  when  a  knowing, 
self-important  old  gentleman,  in  a  sharp  cocked  hat,  made 
his  way  through  the  crowd,  putting  them  to  the  right  and 
left  with  his  elbows  as  he  passed,  and  planting  himself 
before  Van  Winkle,  with  one  arm  akimbo,  the  other  rest- 
ing on  his  cane,  his  keen  eyes  and  sharp  hat  penetrating,  as 
it  were,  into  his  very  soul,  demanded  in  an  austere  tone, 
"  what  brought  him  to  the  election  with  a  gun  on  his  shoul- 
der, and  a  mob  at  his  heels,  and  whether  he  meant  to  breed 
a  riot  in  the  village?" — "Alas!  gentlemen,"  cried  Rip, 
somewhat  dismayed,  "I  am  a  poor  quiet  man,  a  native 
of  the  place,  and  a  loyal  subject  of  the  king,  God  bless 
him!" 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  by-standers — "A 
tory!  a  tory!  a  spy!  a  refugee!  hustle  him!  away  with 
him ! "  It  was  with  great  difficulty  that  the  self-important 
man  in  the  cocked  hat  restored  order;  and,  having  assumed 
a  tenfold  austerity  of  brow,  demanded  again  of  the  un- 
known culprit,  what  he  came  there  for,  and  whom  he  was 
seeking?  The  poor  man  humbly  assured  him  that  he 
meant  no  harm,  but  merely  came  there  in  search  of 
some  of  his  neighbors,  who  used  to  keep  about  the 
tavern. 

"Well — who  are  they? — Name  them." 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  inquired,  "  Where's 
Nicholas  Vedder?" 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  while,  when  an  old  man 
replied,  in  a  thin  piping  voice,  "  Nicholas  Vedder !  why,  he  is 
dead  and  gone  these  eighteen  years!    There  was  a  wooden 


SPECIMENS  OF  NARRATION  283 

tombstone  in  the  church-yard  that  used  to  tell  all  about 
him,  but  that^s  rotten  and  gone  too." 

"Where's  Brom  Butcher?" 

"  Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  beginning  of  the 
war;  some  say  he  was  killed  at  the  storming  of  Stony  Point 
— others  say  he  was  drowned  in  a  squall  at  the  foot  of 
Antony's  Nose.    I  don't  know — he  never  came  back  again." 

"Where's  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster?" 

"  He  went  off  to  the  wars  too,  was  a  great  militia  gen- 
eral, and  is  now  in  congress." 

Rip's  heart  died  away  at  hearing  of  these  sad  changes  in 
his  home  and  friends,  and  finding  himself  thus  alone  in 
the  world.  Every  answer  puzzled  him  too,  by  treating 
of  such  enormous  lapses  of  time,  and  of  matters  which 
he  could  not  understand:  war — congress — Stony  Point; — 
he  had  no  courage  to  ask  after  any  more  friends,  but 
cried  out  in  despair,  "  Does  nobody  here  know  Rip  Van 
Winkle?" 

"  Oh,  Rip  Van  Winkle ! "  exclaimed  two  or  three,  "  Oh, 
to  be  sure!  that's  Rip  Van  Winkle  yonder,  leaning  against 
the  tree." 

Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise  counterpart  of  himself, 
as  he  went  up  the  mountain;  apparently  as  lazy,  and  cer- 
tainly as  ragged.  The  poor  fellow  was  now  completely 
confounded.  He  doubted  his  own  identity,  and  whether 
he  was  himself  or  another  man.  In  the  midst  of  his  be- 
wilderment, the  man  in  the  cocked  hat  demanded  who  he 
was,  and  what  was  his  name  ? 

"  God  knows,"  exclaimed  he,  at  his  wits'  end ;  "  I'm  not 
myself — I'm  somebody  else — that's  me  yonder — no — that's 
somebody  else  got  into  my  shoes — I  was  myself  last  night, 
but  I  fell  asleep  on  the  mountain,  and  they've  changed  my 
gun,  and  every  thing's  changed,  and  I'm  changed,  and  I 
can't  tell  what's  my  name,  or  who  I  am !  " 

The  by-standers  began  now  to  look  at  each  other,  nod, 


284  NARRATION 

wink  significantly,  and  tap  their  fingers  against  their  fore- 
heads. There  was  a  whisper,  also,  about  securing  the  gun, 
and  keeping  the  old  fellow  from  doing  mischief,  at  the  very 
suggestion  of  which  the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked 
hat  retired  with  some  precipitation.  At  this  critical  moment 
a  fresh  comely  woman  pressed  through  the  throng  to  get 
a  peep  at  the  gray-bearded  man.  She  had  a  chubby  child 
in  her  arms,  which,  frightened  at  his  looks,  began  to  cry. 
"  Hush,  Rip,"  cried  she,  "  hush,  you  little  fool ;  the  old  man 
won't  hurt  you."  The  name  of  the  child,  the  air  of  the 
mother,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  all  awakened  a  train  of 
recollections  in  his  mind.  "What  is  your  name,  my  good 
woman  ?  "  asked  he. 

"Judith  Gardenier." 

"And  your  father's  name?" 

"  Ah,  poor  man.  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  his  name,  but  it's 
twenty  years  since  he  went  away  from  home  with  his  gun, 
and  never  has  been  heard  of  since — his  dog  came  home 
without  him;  but  whether  he  shot  himself,  or  was  carried 
away  by  the  Indians,  nobody  can  tell.  I  was  then  but  a 
little  girl." 

Rip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask;  but  he  put  it 
with  a  faltering  voice: 

"  Where's  your  mother?  " 

"  Oh,  she  too  had  died  but  a  short  time  since ;  she  broke 
a  blood-vessel  in  a  fit  of  passion  at  a  New-England  peddler." 

There  was  a  drop  of  comfort,  at  least,  in  this  intelligence, 
The  honest  man  could  contain  himself  no  longer.  He  caught 
his  daughter  and  her  child  in  his  arms.  "  I  am  your 
father !  "  cried  he — "  Young  Rip  Van  Winkle  once — old 
Rip  Van  Winkle  now! — Does  nobody  know  poor  Rip  Van 
Winkle?" 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman,  tottering  out  from 
among  the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and  peering 
under  it  in  his  face  for  a  moment,  exclaimed,  "  Sure  enough ! 


SPECIMENS  OF  NARRATION  285 

it  is  Rip  Van  Winkle — it  is  himself!  Welcome  home  again, 
old  neighbor — Why,  where  have  you  been  these  twenty  long 
years?" 

Rip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole  twenty  years 
had  been  to  him  but  as  one  night.  The  neighbors  stared 
when  they  heard  it;  some  were  seen  to  wink  at  each  other, 
and  put  their  tongues  in  their  cheeks:  and  the  self-impor- 
tant man  in  the  cocked  hat,  who,  when  the  alarm  was  over, 
had  returned  to  the  field,  screwed  down  the  corners  of  his 
mouth,  and  shook  his  head — upon  which  there  was  a  general 
shaking  of  the  head  throughout  the  assemblage. 

It  was  determined,  however,  to  take  the  opinion  of  old 
Peter  Vanderdonk,  who  was  seen  slowly  advancing  up  the 
road.  He  was  a  descendant  of  the  historian  of  that  name, 
who  wrote  one  of  the  earliest  accounts  of  the  province. 
Peter  was  the  most  ancient  inhabitant  of  the  village,  and 
well  versed  in  all  the  wonderful  events  and  traditions  of 
the  neighborhood.  He  recollected  Rip  at  once,  and  cor- 
roborated his  story  in  the  most  satisfactory  manner.  He 
assured  the  company  that  it  was  a  fact,  handed  down 
from  his  ancestor  the  historian,  that  the  Kaatskill  moun- 
tains had  always  been  haunted  by  strange  beings.  That  it 
was  affirmed  that  the  great  Hendrick  Hudson,  the  first  dis- 
coverer of  the  river  and  country,  kept  a  kind  of  vigil 
there  every  twenty  years,  with  his  crew  of  the  Half -moon; 
being  permitted  in  this  way  to  revisit  the  scenes  of  his 
enterprise,  and  keep  a  guardian  eye  upon  the  river,  and 
the  great  city  called  by  his  name.  That  his  father  had 
once  seen  them  in  their  old  Dutch  dresses  playing  at  nine- 
pins in  a  hollow  of  the  mountain;  and  that  he  himself  had 
heard,  one  summer  afternoon,  the  sound  of  their  balls,  like 
distant  peals  of  thunder. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  company  broke  up,  and 
returned  to  the  more  important  concerns  of  the  election. 


286  NARRATION 

Rip's  daughter  took  him  home  to  live  with  her;  she  had 
a  snug,  well-furnished  house,  and  a  stout  cheery  farmer 
for  a  husband,  whom  Rip  recollected  for  one  of  the  urchins 
that  used  to  climb  upon  his  back.  As  to  Rip's  son  and 
heir,  who  was  the  ditto  of  himself,  seen  leaning  against 
the  tree,  he  was  employed  to  work  on  the  farm;  but  evinced 
an  hereditary  disposition  to  attend  to  any  thing  else  but 
his  business. 

Rip  now  resumed  his  old  walks  and  habits ;  he  soon  found 
many  of  his  former  cronies,  though  all  rather  the  worse  for 
the  wear  and  tear  of  time;  and  preferred  making  friends 
among  the  rising  generation,  with  whom  he  soon  grew  into 
great  favor. 

Having  nothing  to  do  at  home,  and  being  arrived  at  that 
happy  age  when  a  man  can  be  idle  with  impunity,  he  took 
his  place  once  more  on  the  bench  at  the  inn  door,  and  was 
reverenced  as  one  of  the  patriarchs  of  the  village,  and  a 
chronicle  of  the  old  times  "  before  the  war."  It  was  some 
time  before  he  could  get  into  the  regular  track  of  gossip, 
or  could  be  made  to  comprehend  the  strange  events  that  had 
taken  place  during  his  torpor.  How  that  there  had  been 
a  revolutionary  war — that  the  country  had  thrown  off  the 
yoke  of  old  England — and  that,  instead  of  being  a  subject 
of  his  Majesty  George  the  Third,  he  was  now  a  free  citizen 
of  the  United  States.  Rip,  in  fact,  was  no  politician;  the 
changes  of  states  and  empires  made  but  little  impression 
on  him;  but  there  was  one  species  of  despotism  under 
which  he  had  long  groaned,  and  that  was — petticoat  govern- 
ment. Happily  that  was  at  an  end;  he  had  got  his  neck 
out  of  the  yoke  of  matrimony,  and  could  go  in  and  out 
whenever  he  pleased,  without  dreading  the  tyranny  of  Dame 
Van  Winkle.  Whenever  her  name  was  mentioned,  however, 
he  shook  his  head,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  cast  up  his 
eyes;  which  might  pass  either  for  an  expression  of  resig- 
nation to  his  fate,  or  joy  at  his  deliverance. 


SPECIMENS  OF  NARRATION  287 

He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger  that  arrived  at 
Mr.  Doolittle's  hotel.  He  was  observed,  at  first,  to  vary  on 
some  points  every  time  he  told  it,  which  was,  doubtless, 
owing  to  his  having  so  recently  awaked.  It  at  last  settled 
down  precisely  to  the  tale  I  have  related,  and  not  a  man, 
woman,  or  child  in  the  neighborhood,  but  knew  it  by  heart. 
Some  always  pretended  to  doubt  the  reality  of  it,  and  in- 
sisted that  Rip  had  been  out  of  his  head,  and  that  this  was 
one  point  on  which  he  always  remained  flighty.  The  old 
Dutch  inhabitants,  however,  almost  universally  gave  it  full 
credit.  Even  to  this  day  they  never  hear  a  thunderstorm 
of  a  summer  afternoon  about  the  Kaatskill,  but  they  say 
Hendrick  Hudson  and  his  crew  are  at  their  game  of  nine- 
pins; and  it  is  a  common  wish  of  all  hen-pecked  husbands 
in  the  neighborhood,  when  life  hangs  heavy  on  their  hands, 
that  they  might  have  a  quieting  draught  out  of  Rip  Van 
Winkle's  flagon. 

The  Ambitious  Guest  ^ 

One  September  night  a  family  had  gathered  round  their 
hearth  and  piled  it  high  with  the  driftwood  of  mountain 
streams,  the  dry  cones  of  the  pine,  and  the  splintered  ruins 
of  great  trees,  that  had  come  crashing  down  the  precipice. 
Up  the  chimney  roared  the  fire,  and  brightened  the  room 
with  its  broad  blaze.  The  faces  of  the  father  and  mother 
had  a  sober  gladness;  the  children  laughed.  The  eldest 
daughter  was  the  image  of  Happiness  at  seventeen,  and 
the  aged  grandmother,  who  sat  knitting  in  the  warmest 
place,  was  the  image  of  Happiness  grown  old.  They  had 
found  the  "herb  heart's-ease "  in  the  bleakest  spot  of  all 
New  England.  This  family  were  situated  in  the  Notch 
of  the  White  Hills,  where  the  wind  was  sharp  throughout 
the  year  and  pitilessly  cold  in  the  winter,  giving  their 

*  From  Tivice  Told  Tales,  by  Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 


288  NARRATION 

cottage  all  its  fresh  inclemency  before  it  descended  on  the 
valley  of  the  Saco.  They  dwelt  in  a  cold  spot  and  a  dan- 
gerous one,  for  a  mountain  towered  above  their  heads  so 
steep  that  the  stones  would  often  tumble  down  its  sides 
and  startle  them  at  midnight. 

The  daughter  had  just  uttered  some  simple  jest  that  filled 
them  all  with  mirth,  when  the  wind  came  through  the  Notch 
and  seemed  to  pause  before  their  cottage,  rattling  the  door 
with  a  sound  of  wailing  and  lamentation  before  it  passed 
into  the  valley.  For  a  moment  it  saddened  them,  though 
there  was  nothing  unusual  in  the  tones.  But  the  family 
were  glad  again  when  they  perceived  that  the  latch  was 
lifted  by  some  traveler  whose  footsteps  had  been  unheard 
amid  the  dreary  blast  which  heralded  his  approach  and 
wailed  as  he  was  entering,  and  went  moaning  away  from 
the  door. 

Though  they  dwelt  in  such  a  solitude,  these  people  held 
daily  converse  with  the  world.  The  romantic  pass  of  the 
Notch  is  a  great  artery  through  which  the  life-blood  of 
internal  commerce  is  continually  throbbing  between  Maine 
on  one  side  and  the  Green  Mountains  and  the  shores  of  the 
St.  Lawrence  on  the  other.  The  stage  coach  always  drew 
up  before  the  door  of  the  cottage.  The  wayfarer  with  no 
companion  but  his  staff  paused  here  to  exchange  a  word, 
that  the  sense  of  loneliness  might  not  utterly  overcome  him 
ere  he  could  pass  through  the  cleft  of  the  mountain  or  reach 
the  first  house  in  the  valley.  And  here  the  teamster  on  his 
way  to  Portland  market  would  put  up  for  the  night,  and, 
if  a  bachelor,  might  sit  an  hour  beyond  the  usual  bedtime 
and  steal  a  kiss  from  the  mountain  maid  at  parting.  It 
was  one  of  those  primitive  taverns  where  the  traveler  pays 
only  for  food  and  lodging,  but  meets  with  a  homely  kind- 
ness beyond  all  price.  When  the  footsteps  were  heard, 
therefore,  between  the  outer  door  and  the  inner  one,  the 
whole  family  rose  up,  grandmother,  children  and  all,  as 


SPECIMENS  OF  NARRATION  289 

if  about  to  welcome  some  one  who  belonged  to  them,  and 
whose  fate  was  linked  with  theirs. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  young  man.  His  face  at  first 
wore  the  melancholy  expression,  almost  despondency,  of  one 
who  travels  a  wild  and  bleak  road  at  nightfall  and  alone, 
but  soon  brightened  up  when  he  saw  the  kindly  warmth  of 
his  reception.  He  felt  his  heart  spring  forward  to  meet 
them  all,  from  the  old  woman  who  wiped  the  chair  with 
her  apron  to  the  little  child  that  held  out  its  arms  to  him. 
One  glance  and  smile  placed  the  stranger  on  a  footing  of 
innocent  familiarity  with  the  eldest  daughter. 

"  Ah !  this  fire  is  the  right  thing,"  cried  he,  "  especially 
when  there  is  such  a  pleasant  circle  round  it.  I  am  quite 
benumbed,  for  the  Notch  is  just  like  the  pipe  of  a  great  pair 
of  bellows;  it  has  blown  a  terrible  blast  in  my  face  all  the 
way  from  Bartlett." 

"  Then  you  are  going  toward  Vermont  ?  "  said  the  master 
of  the  house  as  he  helped  to  take  a  light  knapsack  off  the 
young  man^s  shoulders. 

"  Yes,  to  Burlington,  and  far  enough  beyond,"  replied  he. 
"  I  meant  to  have  been  at  Ethan  Crawford's  to-night,  but 
a  pedestrian  lingers  along  such  a  road  as  this.  It  is  no 
matter;  for  when  I  saw  this  good  fire  and  all  your  cheerful 
faces,  I  felt  as  if  you  had  kindled  it  on  purpose  for  me 
and  were  waiting  my  arrival.  So  I  shall  sit  down  among 
you  and  make  myself  at  home." 

The  frank-hearted  stranger  had  just  drawn  his  chair  to 
the  fire  when  something  like  a  heavy  footstep  was  heard 
without,  rushing  down  the  steep  side  of  the  mountain  as 
with  long  and  rapid  strides,  and  taking  such  a  leap  in  pass- 
ing the  cottage  as  to  strike  the  opposite  precipice.  The 
family  held  their  breath,  because  they  knew  the  sound, 
and  their  guest  held  his  by  instinct. 

"  The  old  mountain  has  thrown  a  stone  at  us  for  fear  we 
should  forget  him,"  said  the  landlord,  recovering  himself. 


290  NARRATION 

"  He  sometimes  nods  his  head  and  threatens  to  come  down, 
but  we  are  old  neighbors,  and  agree  together  pretty  well 
upon  the  whole.  Besides,  we  have  a  sure  place  of  refuge 
hard  by  if  he  should  be  coming  in  good  earnest." 

Let  us  now  suppose  the  stranger  to  have  finished  his 
supper  of  bear's  meat,  and  by  his  natural  felicity  of  manner 
to  have  placed  himself  on  a  footing  of  kindness  with  the 
whole  family;  so  that  they  talked  as  freely  together  as  if 
he  belonged  to  their  mountain  brood.  He  was  of  a  proud 
yet  gentle  spirit,  haughty  and  reserved  among  the  rich 
and  great,  but  ever  ready  to  stoop  his  head  to  the  lowly 
cottage  door  and  be  like  a  brother  or  a  son  at  the  poor 
man's  fireside.  In  the  household  of  the  Notch  he  found 
warmth  and  simplicity  of  feeling,  the  pervading  intelligence 
of  New  England,  and  a  poetry  of  native  growth  which  they 
had  gathered  when  they  little  thought  of  it  from  the  moun- 
tain-peaks and  chasms,  and  at  the  very  threshold  of  their 
romantic  and  dangerous  abode.  He  had  traveled  far  and 
alone;  his  whole  life,  indeed,  had  been  a  solitary  path,  for, 
with  the  lofty  caution  of  his  nature,  he  had  kept  himself 
apart  from  those  who  might  otherwise  have  been  his  com- 
panions. The  family,  too,  though  so  kind  and  hospitable, 
had  that  consciousness  of  unity  among  themselves  and  sep- 
aration from  the  world  at  large  which  in  every  domestic 
circle  should  still  keep  a  holy  place  where  no  stranger  may 
intrude.  But  this  evening  a  prophetic  sympathy  impelled 
the  refined  and  educated  youth  to  pour  out  his  heart  before 
the  simple  mountaineers,  and  constrained  them  to  answer 
him  with  the  same  free  confidence.  And  thus  it  should  have 
been.  Is  not  the  kindred  of  a  common  fate  a  closer  tie 
than  that  of  birth? 

The  secret  of  the  young  man's  character  was  a  high  and 
abstracted  ambition.  He  could  have  borne  to  live  an  undis- 
tinguished life,  but  not  to  be  forgotten  in  the  grave.  Yearn- 
ing desire  had  been  transformed  to  hope,  and  hope,  long 


SPECIMENS  OF  NARRATION  291 

cherished,  had  become  like  certainty  that,  obscurely  as  he 
journeyed  now,  a  glory  was  to  beam  on  all  his  pathway, 
though  not,  perhaps,  while  he  was  treading  it.  But  when 
posterity  should  gaze  back  into  the  gloom  of  what  was 
now  the  present,  they  would  trace  the  brightness  of  his 
footsteps,  brightening  as  meaner  glories  faded,  and  confess 
that  a  gifted  one  had  passed  from  his  cradle  to  his  tomb 
with  none  to  recognize  him. 

"As  yet,"  cried  the  stranger,  his  cheek  glowing  and  his 
eye  flashing  with  enthusiasm — "  as  yet  I  have  done  nothing. 
Were  I  to  vanish  from  the  earth  to-morrow,  none  would 
know  so  much  of  me  as  you — that  a  nameless  youth  came 
up  at  nightfall  from  the  valley  of  the  Saco,  and  opened 
his  heart  to  you  in  the  evening,  and  passed  through  the 
Notch  by  sunrise,  and  was  seen  no  more.  Not  a  soul  would 
ask,  ^Who  was  he?  Whither  did  the  wanderer  go?'  But 
I  cannot  die  till  I  have  achieved  my  destiny.  Then  let  Death 
come;  I  shall  have  built  my  monument." 

There  was  a  continual  flow  of  natural  emotion  gushing 
forth  amid  abstracted  reverie  which  enabled  the  family  to 
understand  this  young  man's  sentiments,  though  so  foreign 
from  their  own.  With  quick  sensibility  of  the  ludicrous,  he 
blushed  at  the  ardor  into  which  he  had  been  betrayed. 

"  You  laugh  at  me,"  said  he,  taking  the  eldest  daughter's 
hand  and  laughing  himself.  "  You  think  my  ambition  as 
nonsensical  as  if  I  were  to  freeze  myself  to  death  on  the 
top  of  Mount  Washington  only  that  people  might  spy  at  me 
from  the  country  round-about.  And  truly  that  would  be  a 
noble  pedestal  for  a  man's  statue." 

"  It  is  better  to  sit  here  by  this  fire,"  answered  the  girl, 
blushing,  "and  be  comfortable  and  contented,  though  no- 
body thinks  about  us." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  her  father,  after  a  fit  of  musing,  "  there 
is  something  natural  in  what  the  young  man  says;  and  if 
my  mind  had  been  turned  that  way,  I  might  have  felt  just 


292  NARRATION 

the  same.  It  is  strange,  wife,  how  his  talk  has  set  my  head 
running  on  things  that  are  pretty  certain  never  to  come 
to  pass." 

"Perhaps  they  may,"  observed  the  wife.  "Is  the  man 
thinking  what  he  will  do  when  he  is  a  widower  ?  " 

"  No,  no !  "  cried  he,  repelling  the  idea  with  reproachful 
kindness.  "  When  I  think  of  your  death,  Esther,  I  think  of 
mine,  too.  But  I  was  wishing  we  had  a  good  farm  in 
Bartlett  or  Bethlehem  or  Littleton,  or  some  other  township 
round  the  White  Mountains,  but  not  where  they  could 
tumble  on  our  heads.  I  should  want  to  stand  well  with 
my  neighbors  and  be  called  squire  and  sent  to  General 
Court  for  a  term  or  two;  for  a  plain,  honest  man  may  do 
as  much  good  there  as  a  lawyer.  And  when  I  should  be 
grown  quite  an  old  man,  and  you  an  old  woman,  so  as  not 
to  be  long  apart,  I  might  die  happy  enough  in  my  bed, 
and  leave  you  all  crying  around  me.  A  slate  gravestone 
would  suit  me  as  well  as  a  marble  one,  with  just  my  name 
and  age,  and  a  verse  of  a  hymn,  and  something  to 
let  people  know  that  I  lived  an  honest  mian  and  died  a 
Christian." 

"  There,  now!  "  exclaimed  the  stranger;  "  it  is  our  nature 
to  desire  a  monument,  be  it  slate  or  marble,  or  a  pillar  of 
granite,  or  a  glorious  memory  in  the  universal  heart  of 
man." 

"WeVe  in  a  strange  way  to-night,"  said  the  wife,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes.  "  They  say  it's  a  sign  of  something  when 
folks'  minds  go  a- wandering  so.    Hark  to  the  children !  " 

They  listened  accordingly.  The  younger  children  had  been 
put  to  bed  in  another  room,  but  with  an  open  door  between ; 
so  that  they  could  be  heard  talking  busily  among  themselves. 
One  and  all  seemed  to  have  caught  the  infection  from  the 
fireside  circle,  and  were  outvying  each  other  in  wild  wishes 
and  childish  projects  of  what  they  would  do  when  they 
came  to  be  men  and  women.    At  length  a  little  boy,  instead 


SPECIMENS  OF  NARRATION  293 

of  addressing  his  brothers  and  sisters,  called  out  to  his 
mother : 

" I'll  tell  you  what  I  wish,  mother,"  cried  he ;  "I  want 
you  and  father  and  grandma'm,  and  all  of  us,  and  the 
stranger,  too,  to  start  right  away  and  go  and  take  a  drink 
out  of  the  basin  of  the  Flume." 

Nobody  could  help  laughing  at  the  child's  notion  of  leav- 
ing a  warm  bed  and  dragging  them  from  a  cheerful  fire 
to  visit  the  basin  of  the  Flume — a  brook  which  tumbles  over 
the  precipice  deep  within  the  Notch. 

The  boy  had  hardly  spoken,  when  a  wagon  rattled  along 
the  road  and  stopped  a  moment  before  the  door.  It  ap-. 
peared  to  contain  two  or  three  men  who  were  cheering 
their  hearts  with  the  rough  chorus  of  a  song  which  re- 
sounded in  broken  notes  between  the  cliffs,  while  the  singers 
hesitated  whether  to  continue  their  journey  or  put  up  here 
for  the  night. 

"  Father,"  said  the  girl,  "  they  are  calling  you  by  name." 

But  the  good  man  doubted  whether  they  had  really 
called  him,  and  was  unwilling  to  show  himself  too  solicitous 
of  gain  by  inviting  people  to  patronize  his  house.  He  there- 
fore did  not  hurry  to  the  door,  and,  the  lash  being  soon 
applied,  the  travelers  plunged  into  the  Notch,  still  singing 
and  laughing,  though  their  music  and  mirth  came  back 
drearily  from  the  heart  of  the  mountain. 

"  There,  mother !  "  cried  the  boy  again ;  "  they'd  have 
given  us  a  ride  to  the  Flume." 

Again  they  laughed  at  the  child's  pertinacious  fancy  for 
a  night  ramble.  But  it  happened  that  a  light  cloud  passed 
over  the  daughter's  spirit;  she  looked  gravely  into  the  fire 
and  drew  a  breath  that  was  almost  a  sigh.  It  forced  its 
way,  in  spite  of  a  little  struggle  to  repress  it.  Then,  start- 
ing and  blushing,  she  looked  quickly  around  the  circle,  as 
if  they  had  caught  a  glimpse  into  her  bosom.  The  stranger 
asked  what  she  had  been  thinkinsr  of. 


294  NARRATION 

"Nothing,"  answered  she,  with  a  downcast  smile;  "only 
I  felt  lonesome  just  then." 

"  Oh,  I  have  always  had  a  gift  of  feeling  what  is  in 
other  people^s  hearts,"  said  he,  half  seriously.  "  Shall  I 
tell  the  secrets  of  yours?  For  I  know  what  to  think  when 
a  young  girl  shivers  by  a  warm  hearth  and  complains  of 
lonesomeness  at  her  mother's  side.  Shall  I  put  these  feel- 
ings into  words  ?  " 

"  They  would  not  be  a  girFs  feelings  any  longer  if  they 
could  be  put  into  words,"  rejlied  the  mountain  nymph, 
laughing,  but  avoiding  his  eye. 

All  this  was  said  apart.  Perhaps  a  germ  of  love  was 
springing  in  their  hearts  so  pure  that  it  might  blossom  in 
Paradise,  since  it  could  not  be  matured  on  earth ;  for  women 
worship  such  gentle  dignity  as  his,  and  the  proud,  con- 
templative, yet  kindly,  soul  is  oftenest  captivated  by  sim- 
plicity like  hers.  But  while  they  spoke  softly,  and  he  was 
watching  the  happy  sadness,  the  lightsome  shadows,  the  shy 
yearnings  of  a  maiden's  nature,  the  wind  through  the  Notch 
took  a  deeper  and  drearier  sound.  It  seemed,  as  the  fanciful 
stranger  said,  like  the  choral  strain  of  the  spirits  of  the 
blast  who  in  old  Indian  times  had  their  dwelling  among 
these  mountains,  and  made  their  heights  and  recesses  a 
sacred  region.  There  was  a  wail  along  the  road  as  if  a 
funeral  were  passing.  To  chase  away  the  gloom,  the  family 
threw  pine-branches  on  their  fire  till  the  dry  leaves  crackled 
and  the  flame  arose,  discovering  once  again  a  scene  of 
peace  and  humble  happiness.  The  light  hovered  about  them 
fondly  and  caressed  them  all.  There  were  the  little  faces 
of  the  children  peeping  from  their  bed  apart,  and  here  the 
father's  frame  of  strength,  the  mother's  subdued  and  care- 
ful mien,  the  high-browed  youth,  the  budding  girl,  and  the 
good  old  grandam  still  knitting  in  the  warmest  place. 

The  aged  woman  looked  up  from  her  task,  and  with 
fingers  ever  busy  was  the  next  to  speak. 


SPECIMENS  OF  NARRATION  295 

"  Old  folks  have  their  notions,"  said  she,  "  as  well  as 
young  ones.  YouVe  been  wishing  and  planning  and  letting 
your  heads  run  on  one  thing  and  another  till  youVe  set 
my  mind  a  wandering  too.  Now,  what  should  an  old 
woman  wish  for  when  she  can  go  but  a  step  or  two  before 
she  comes  to  her  grave?  Children,  it  will  haunt  me  night 
and  day  till  I  tell  you." 

"What  is  it,  mother?"  cried  the  husband  and  wife,  at 
once. 

Then  the  old  woman,  with  an  air  of  mystery  which  drew 
the  circle  closer  round  the  fire,  informed  them  that  she  had 
provided  her  grave-clothes  some  years  before — a  nice  linen 
shroud,  a  cap  with  a  muslin  ruff,  and  everything  of  a  finer 
sort  than  she  had  worn  since  her  wedding  day.  But  this 
evening  an  old  superstition  had  strangely  recurred  to  her. 
It  used  to  be  said  in  her  younger  days  that  if  anjrthing  were 
amiss  with  a  corpse  if  only  the  ruff  were  not  smooth  or 
the  cap  did  not  set  right — the  corpse,  in  the  coffin  and 
beneath  the  clouds,  would  strive  to  put  up  its  cold  hands 
and  arrange  it.     The  bare  thought  made  her  nervous. 

"  Don^t  talk  so,  grandmother,"  said  the  girl,  shuddering. 

"  Now,"  continued  the  old  woman  with  singular  earnest- 
ness, yet  smiling  strangely  at  her  own  folly,  "  I  want  one  of 
you,  my  children,  when  your  mother  is  dressed  and  in  the 
coffin, — I  want  one  of  you  to  hold  a  looking-glass  over  my 
face.  Who  knows  but  I  may  take  a  glimpse  at  myself,  and 
see  whether  all's  right." 

"  Old  and  young,  we  dream  of  graves  and  monuments," 
murmured  the  stranger  youth.  "  I  wonder  how  mariners 
feel  when  the  ship  is  sinking  and  they,  unknown  and  undis- 
tinguished, are  to  be  buried  together  in  the  ocean,  that 
wide  and  nameless  sepulcher?" 

For  a  moment  the  old  woman's  ghastly  conception  so  en- 
grossed the  minds  of  her  hearers  that  a  sound  abroad  in 
the  night,  rising  like  the  roar  of  a  blast,  had  grown  broad; 


296  NARRATION 

deep  and  terrible  before  the  fated  group  were  conscious 
of  it.  The  house  and  all  within  it  trembled :  the  foundations 
of  the  earth  seemed  to  be  shaken,  as  if  this  awful  sound 
were  the  peal  of  the  last  trump.  Young  and  old  exchanged 
one  wild  glance  and  remained  an  instant  pale,  affrighted, 
without  utterance  or  power  to  move.  Then  the  same  shriek 
burst  simultaneously  from  all  their  lips: 

"The  slide!    The  slide!" 

The  simplest  words  must  intimate,  but  not  portray,  the 
unutterable  horror  of  the  catastrophe.  The  victims  rushed 
from  their  cottage,  and  sought  refuge  in  what  they  deemed 
a  safer  spot,  where,  in  contemplation  of  such  an  emergency, 
a  sort  of  barrier  had  been  reared.  Alas!  they  had  quitted 
their  security  and  fled  right  into  the  pathway  of  destruc- 
tion. Down  came  the  whole  side  of  the  mountain  in  a 
cataract  of  ruin.  Just  before  it  reached  the  house  the  stream 
broke  into  two  branches,  shivered  not  a  window  there,  but 
overwhelmed  the  whole  vicinity,  blocked  up  the  road  and 
annihilated  everything  in  its  dreadful  course.  Long  ere 
the  thunder  of  that  great  slide  had  ceased  to  roar  among 
the  mountains  the  mortal  agony  had  been  endured  and  the 
victims  were  at  peace.    Their  bodies  were  never  found. 

The  next  morning  the  light  smoke  was  seen  stealing  from 
the  cottage  chimney,  up  the  mountain-side.  Within,  the 
fire  was  yet  smoldering  on  the  hearth,  and  the  chairs  in 
a  circle  round  it,  as  if  the  inhabitants  had  but  gone  forth 
to  view  the  devastation  of  the  slide,  and  would  shortly  return 
to  thank  Heaven  for  their  miraculous  escape.  All  had  left 
separate  tokens  by  which  those  who  had  known  the  family 
were  made  to  shed  a  tear  for  each.  Who  has  not  heard  their 
name?  The  story  has  been  told  far  and  wide,  and  will 
forever  be  a  legend  of  these  mountains.  Poets  have  sung 
their  fate. 

There  were  circumstances  which  led  some  to  suppose  that 
Sk  stranger  had  been  received  into  the  cottage  on  this  awful 


SPECIMENS  OF  NARRATION  297 

night,  and  had  shared  the  catastrophe  of  all  its  inmates; 
others  denied  that  there  were  sufficient  grounds  for  such  a 
conjecture.  Woe  for  the  high-souled  youth  with  his  dream 
of  earthly  immortality!  His  name  and  person  utterly  un- 
known, his  history,  his  way  of  life,  his  plans,  a  mystery 
never  to  be  solved,  his  death  and  his  existence  equally  a 
doubt, — ^whose  was  the  agony  of  that  death  moment? 


EXERCISES 

1.  Limit  each  of  the  following  general  subjects  in 
such  a  way  as  to  make  it  suitable  for  a  theme  of  about 
three  hundred  words: 

Balloons.  PoHtics. 

Newspapers.  Labor  unionism. 

Municipal  government.  The  theater. 

Bees.  Department  stores. 

The  Olympic  games.  Arctic  explorations. 

American  universities.  Japan. 

2.  Outline  the  plan  of  the  following: 

a.  How  to  make  New  Varieties  of  Plants. 

b.  Franklin's  Account  of  his  Early  Studies. 

c.  The  Influence  of  the  Press  in  America. 

3.  Analyze  the  paragraph  structure  in  any  one  of 
the  selections  illustrating  expository  writing,  from 
the  point  of  view  of, 

a.  The  position  of  the  topic  sentence. 

h.  The  methods  used  in  developing  the  topic. 

c.  The  placing  of  the  emphasis. 

d.  The  use  of  parallel  structure. 

e.  The  means  used  to  effect  transitions. 

299 


300  EXERCISES 

4.  Develop  the  following  paragraph  topics  in  such 
a  way  as  to  produce  a  coherent  theme  on  the  subject, 
College  Spirit: 

a.    What  college  spirit  is. 

h.    Ways  in  which  it  may  properly  manifest  itself. 

c.    Its  value,  both  to  the  student  and  to  the  college. 

5.  Discuss  the  paragraph  structure  in  any  one  of 
the  selections  used  to  illustrate  descriptive  and  narra- 
tive composition,  from  the  point  of  view  of  unity 
and  coherence. 

6.  Outline  the  plan  of  each  of  the  following  para- 
graphs : 

a.  The  effect  of  historical  reading  is  analogous,  in  many 
respects,  to  that  produced  by  foreign  travel.  The  student, 
like  the  tourist,  is  transported  into  a  new  state  of  society. 
He  sees  new  fashions.  He  hears  new  modes  of  expression. 
His  mind  is  enlarged  by  contemplating  the  wide  diversities 
of  laws,  of  morals,  and  of  manners.  But  men  may  travel 
far,  and  return  with  minds  as  contracted  as  if  they  had 
never  stirred  from  their  own  market-town.  In  the  same 
manner,  men  may  know  the  dates  of  many  battles  and  the 
genealogies  of  many  royal  houses,  and  yet  be  no  wiser. 
Most  people  look  at  past  times  as  princes  look  at  foreign 
countries.  More  than  one  illustrious  stranger  has  landed 
on  our  island  amidst  the  shouts  of  a  mob,  has  dined  with 
the  king,  has  hunted  with  the  master  of  the  stag-hounds, 
has  seen  the  Guards  reviewed,  and  a  knight  of  the  garter 
installed,  has  cantered  along  Regent  Street,  has  visited 
St.  PauFs,  and  noted  down  its  dimensions;  and  has  then 
departed,  thinking  that  he  has  seen  England.  He  has,  in 
fact,  seen  a  few  public  buildings,  public  men,  and  public 


EXERCISES  301 

ceremonies.  But  of  the  vast  and  complex  system  of  society, 
of  the  fine  shades  of  national  character,  of  the  practical 
operation  of  government  and  laws,  he  knows  nothing.  He 
who  would  understand  these  things  rightly  must  not  con- 
fimie  his  observations  to  palaces  and  solemn  days.  He 
must  see  ordinary  men  as  they  appear  in  their  ordinary 
business  and  in  their  ordinary  pleasures.  He  must  mingle 
in  the  crowds  of  the  exchange  and  the  coffee-house.  He 
must  obtain  admittance  to  the  convivial  table  and  the 
domestic  hearth.  He  must  bear  with  vulgar  expressions. 
He  must  not  shrink  from  exploring  even  the  retreats  of 
misery.  He  who  wishes  to  understand  the  condition  of 
mankind  in  former  ages  must  proceed  on  the  same  principle. 
If  he  attends  only  to  public  transactions,  to  wars,  con- 
gresses, and  debates,  his  studies  will  be  as  unprofitable  as 
the  travels  of  those  imperial,  royal,  and  serene  sovereigns 
who  form  their  judgment  of  our  island  from  having  gone 
in  state  to  a  few  fine  sights,  and  from  having  held  formal 
conferences  with  a  few  great  ofl&cers. 

b.  She  clung  perhaps  to  her  popularity  the  more  pas- 
sionately that  it  hid  in  some  measure  from  her  the  terrible 
loneliness  of  her  life.  She  was  the  last  of  the  Tudors,  the 
last  of  Henry's  children;  and  her  nearest  relatives  were 
Mary  Stuart  and  the  House  of  Suffolk,  one  the  avowed, 
the  other  the  secret  claimant  of  her  throne.  Among  her 
mother's  kindred  she  found  but  a  single  cousin.  Whatever 
womanly  tenderness  she  had,  wrapt  itself  around  Leicester; 
but  a  marriage  with  Leicester  was  impossible,  and  every 
other  union,  could  she  even  have  bent  to  one,  was  denied 
to  her  by  the  political  difficulties  of  her  position.  The  one 
cry  of  bitterness  which  burst  from  Elizabeth  revealed  her 
terrible  sense  of  the  solitude  of  her  life.  "  The  Queen  of 
Scots,"  she  cried  at  the  birth  of  James,  "has  a  fair  son, 
and  I  am  but  a  barren  stock."    But  the  loneliness  of  her 


302  EXERCISES 

position  only  reflected  the  loneliness  of  her  nature.  She 
stood  utterly  apart  from  the  world  around  her,  sometimes 
above  it,  sometimes  below  it,  but  never  of  it.  It  was  only 
on  its  intellectual  side  that  Elizabeth  touched  the  England 
of  her  day.  All  its  moral  aspects  were  simply  dead  to  her. 
It  was  a  time  when  men  were  being  lifted  into  nobleness 
by  the  new  moral  energy  which  seemed  suddenly  to  pulse 
through  the  whole  people,  when  honor  and  enthusiasm 
took  colors  of  poetic  beauty,  and  religion  became  a  chivalry. 
But  the  finer  sentiments  of  the  men  around  her  touched 
Elizabeth  simply  as  the  fair  tints  of  a  picture  would  have 
touched  her.  She  made  her  market  with  equal  indifference 
out  of  the  heroism  of  William  of  Orange  or  the  bigotry  of 
Philip.  The  noblest  aims  and  lives  were  only  counters  on 
her  board.  She  was  the  one  soul  in  her  realm  whom  the 
news  of  St.  Bartholomew  stirred  to  no  thirst  for  vengeance; 
and  while  England  was  thrilling  with  its  triumph  over  the 
Armada,  its  Queen  was  coolly  grumbling  over  the  cost, 
and  making  her  profit  out  of  the  spoiled  provisions  she  had 
ordered  for  the  fleet  that  saved  her.  To  the  voice  of  grati- 
tude, indeed,  she  was  for  the  most  part  deaf.  She  accepted 
services  such  as  were  never  rendered  to  any  other  English 
sovereign  without  a  thought  of  return.  Walsingham  speat 
his  fortune  in  saving  her  life  and  her  throne,  and  she  left 
him  to  die  a  beggar.  But,  as  if  by  a  strange  irony,  it  was 
to  this  very  want  of  sympathy  that  she  owed  some  of  the 
grander  features  of  her  character.  If  she  was  without 
love,  she  was  without  hate.  She  cherished  no  petty  re- 
sentments j  she  never  stooped  to  envy  or  suspicion  of  the 
men  who  served  her.  She  was  indifferent  to  abuse.  Her 
good  humor  was  never  ruffled  by  the  charges  of  wanton- 
ness and  cruelty  with  which  the  Jesuits  filled  every  court 
in  Europe.  She  was  insensible  to  fear.  Her  life  became 
at  last  the  mark  for  assassin  after  assassin,  but  the  thought 
of  peril  was  the  one  hardest  to  bring  home  to  her.    Even 


EXERCISES  303 

when  the  Catholic  plots  broke  out  iii  her  very  household 
she  would  listen  to  no  proposals  for  the  removal  of  Cath- 
olics from  her  court. 

7.  What  methods  of  developing  the  topic  are  em- 
ployed in  the  following  paragraphs? 

a.  As  the  nature  of  any  given  thing  is  the  aggregate  of 
its  powers  and  properties,  so  Natui-e  in  the  abstract  is  the 
aggregate  of  the  powers  and  properties  of  all  things. 
Nature  means  the  sum  of  all  phenomena,  together  with 
the  causes  which  produce  them;  including  not  only  all 
that  happens,  but  all  that  is  capable  of  happening;  the 
unused  capabilities  of  causes  being  as  much  a  part  of  the 
idea  of  Nature  as  those  which  take  effect.  Since  all  phe- 
nomena which  have  been  sufficiently  examined  are  found 
to  take  place  with  regularity,  each  having  certain  fixed 
conditions,  positive  and  negative,  on  the  occurrence  of 
which  it  invariably  happens;  mankind  have  been  able  to 
ascertain,  either  by  direct  observation  or  by  reasoning 
processes  grounded  on  it,  the  conditions  of  the  occurrence 
of  many  phenomena;  and  the  progress  of  science  mainly 
consists  in  ascertaining  those  conditions.  When  discov- 
ered they  can  be  expressed  in  general  propositions,  which 
are  called  laws  of  the  particular  phenomenon,  and  also, 
more  generally,  Laws  of  Nature.  Thus,  the  truth  that  all 
material  objects  tend  towards  one  another  with  a  force 
directly  as  their  masses  and  inversely  as  the  square  of 
theii-  distance,  is  a  law  of  Nature.  The  proposition  that 
air  and  food  are  necessary  to  animal  life,  if  it  be  as  we 
have  good  reason  to  believe,  true  without  exception,  is  also 
a  law  of  Nature,  though  the  phenomenon  of  which  it  is  the 
law  is  special,  and  not,  like  gravitation,  universal. 

h.  It  is  important  to  remember  that,  in  strictness,  there 
is  no  such  thing  as  an  uneducated  man.    Take  an  extreme 


304  EXERCISES 

case.  Suppose  that  an  adult  man,  in  the  full  vigor  of  his 
faculties,  could  be  suddenly  placed  in  the  world,  as  Adam 
is  said  to  have  been,  and  then  left  to  do  as  he  best  might. 
How  long  would  he  be  left  uneducated?  Not  five  minutes. 
Nature  would  begin  to  teach  him,  through  the  eye,  the 
ear,  the  touch,  the  properties  of  objects.  Pain  and  pleasure 
would  be  at  his  elbow  telling  him  to  do  this  and  avoid  that ; 
and  by  slow  degrees  the  man  would  receive  an  education, 
which,  if  narrow,  would  be  thorough,  real,  and  adequate  to 
his  circumstances,  though  there  would  be  no  extras  and 
very  few  accomplishments. 

e.  The  great  charm,  however,  of  English  scenery  is  the 
moral  feeling  that  seems  to  pervade  it.  It  is  associated  in 
the  mind  with  ideas  of  order,  of  quiet,  of  sober  well-estab- 
lished principles,  of  hoary  usage  and  reverend  custom. 
Every  thing  seems  to  be  the  growth  of  ages  of  regular  and 
peaceful  existence.  The  old  church  of  remote  architecture, 
with  its  low  massive  portal;  its  gothic  tower;  its  windows 
rich  with  tracery  and  painted  glass,  in  scrupulous  preserva- 
tion; its  stately  monuments  of  warriors  and  worthies  of 
the  olden  time,  ancestors  of  the  present  lords  of  the  soil; 
its  tombstones,  recording  successive  generations  of  sturdy 
yeomanry,  whose  progeny  still  plough  the  same  fields,  and 
kneel  at  the  same  altar — the  parsonage,  a  quaint  irregular 
pile,  partly  antiquated,  but  repaired  and  altered  in  the 
tastes  of  various  ages  and  occupants — the  stile  and  foot- 
path leading  from  the  church-yard,  across  pleasant  fields, 
and  along  shady  hedge-rows,  according  to  an  immemorial 
right  of  way — the  neighboring  village,  with  its  venerable 
cottages,  its  public  green  sheltered  by  trees,  under  which 
the  forefathers  of  the  present  race  have  sported — the  an- 
tique family  mansion,  standing  apart  in  some  little  rural 
domain,  but  looking  down  with  a  protecting  air  on  the 
surrounding  scene:  all  these  common  features  of  English 


EXERCISES  305 

landscape  evince  a  calm  and  settled  security,  and  hereditary 
transmission  of  homebred  virtues  and  local  attachments,  that 
speak  deeply  and  touchingly  for  the  moral  character  of 
the  nation. 

d.  Though  really  a  good-hearted,  good-tempered  old  fel- 
low at  bottom,  yet  he  is  singularly  fond  of  being  in  the 
midst  of  contention.  It  is  one  of  his  peculiarities,  however, 
that  he  only  relishes  the  beginning  of  an  affray;  he  always 
goes  into  a  fight  with  alacrity,  but  comes  out  of  it  grum- 
bling even  when  victorious;  and  though  no  one  fights  with 
more  obstinacy  to  carry  a  contested  point,  yet,  when  the 
battle  is  over,  and  he  comes  to  the  reconciliation,  he  is  so 
much  taken  up  with  the  mere  shaking  of  hands,  that  he  is 
apt  to  let  his  antagonist  pocket  all  that  they  have  been 
quarreling  about.  It  is  not,  therefore,  fighting  that  he 
ought  so  much  to  be  on  his  guard  against,  as  making 
friends.  It  is  difficult  to  cudgel  him  out  of  a  farthing;  but 
put  him  in  a  good  humor,  and  you  may  bargain  him  out 
of  all  the  money  in  his  pocket.  He  is  like  a  stout  ship, 
which  will  weather  the  roughest  storm  uninjured,  but  roll 
its  masts  overboard  in  the  succeeding  cahn. 

8.  Point  out  cases  of  parallelism  in  the  sentence 
structure  in  the  following  paragraphs: 

a.  Pride,  under  such  training,  instead  of  running  to 
waste  in  the  education  of  the  mind,  is  turned  to  account;  it 
is  called  self-respect;  and  ceases  to  be  the  disagreeable, 
uncompanionable  quality  which  it  is  in  itself.  Though  it 
be  the  motive  principle  of  the  soul,  it  seldom  comes  to  view ; 
and  when  it  shows  itself,  then  delicacy  and  gentleness  are 
its  attire,  and  good  sense  and  sense  of  honor  direct  its  mo- 
tions. It  is  no  longer  a  restless  agent,  without  definite 
aim;  it  has  a  large  field  of  exertion  assigned  to  it,  and 


306  EXERCISES 

it  subserves  those  social  interests  which  it  would  naturally 
trouble.  It  is  directed  into  the  channel  of  industry,  fru- 
gality, honesty,  and  obedience;  and  it  becomes  the  very 
staple  of  the  religion  and  morality  held  in  honor  in  a  day 
like  our  own.  It  becomes  the  safeguard  of  chastity,  the 
guarantee  of  veracity,  in  high  and  low;  it  is  the  very 
household  god  of  society,  as  at  present  constituted,  inspiring 
neatness  and  decency  in  the  servant  girl,  propriety  of  car- 
riage and  refined  manners  in  her  mistress,  uprightness,  man- 
liness, and  generosity  in  the  head  of  the  family.  It  diffuses 
a  light  over  town  and  country;  it  covers  the  soil  with 
handsome  edifices  and  smiling  gardens;  it  tills  the  field,  it 
stocks  and  embellishes  the  shop.  It  is  the  stimulating  prin- 
ciple of  providence  on  the  one  hand,  and  of  free  expenditure 
on  the  other;  of  an  honorable  ambition,  and  of  elegant  en- 
joyment. It  breathes  upon  the  face  of  the  community,  and 
the  hollow  sepulcher  is  forthwith  beautiful  to  look  upon. 

h.  She  is  like  some  tender  tree,  the  pride  and  beauty 
of  the  grove;  graceful  in  its  form,  bright  in  its  foliage, 
but  with  the  worm  preying  at  its  heart.  We  find  it  sud- 
denly withering,  when  it  should  be  most  fresh  and  luxuriant. 
We  see  it  drooping  its  branches  to  the  earth,  and  shedding 
leaf  by  leaf,  until,  wasted  and  perished  away,  it  falls  even 
in  the  stillness  of  the  forest;  and  as  we  muse  over  the 
beautiful  ruin,  we  strive  in  vain  to  recollect  the  blast  or 
thunderbolt  that  could  have  smitten  it  with  decay. 

c.  The  inquiry  was  so  extensive  that  the  Houses  rose 
before  it  had  been  completed.  It  was  continued  in  the 
following  session.  When  at  length  the  committee  had  con- 
cluded its  labors,  enlightened  and  impartial  men  had  little 
difficulty  in  making  up  their  minds  as  to  the  result.  It 
was  clear  that  Clive  had  been  guilty  of  some  acts  which 
it  is  impossible  to  vindicate  without  attacking  the  authority 


EXERCISES  307 

of  all  the  most  sacred  laws  which  regulate  the  intercourse 
of  individuals  and  of  states.  But  it  was  equally  clear 
that  he  had  displayed  great  talents  and  even  great  virtues; 
that  he  had  rendered  eminent  services  both  to  his  country 
and  to  the  people  of  India ;  and  that  it  was  in  truth  not  for 
his  dealings  with  Meer  Jaffier,  nor  for  the  fraud  which  he 
had  practised  on  Omichund,  but  for  his  determined  re- 
sistance to  avarice  and  tjrranny  that  he  was  now  called  in 
question. 

d.  A  history  in  which  every  particular  incident  may  be 
true  may  on  the  whole  be  false.  The  circumstances  which 
have  most  influence  on  the  happiness  of  mankind,  the 
changes  of  manners  and  morals,  the  transition  of  commu- 
nities from  poverty  to  wealth,  from  knowledge  to  ignorance, 
from  ferocity  to  humanity — ^these  are,  for  the  most  part, 
noiseless  revolutions.  Their  progress  is  rarely  indicated  by 
what  historians  are  pleased  to  call  important  events.  They 
are  not  achieved  by  armies,  or  enacted  by  senates.  They 
are  sanctioned  by  no  treaties,  and  recorded  in  no  archives. 
They  are  carried  on  in  every  school,  in  every  church, 
behind  ten  thousand  counters,  at  ten  thousand  firesides. 
The  upper  current  of  society  presents  no  certain  criterion 
by  which  we  can  judge  of  the  direction  in  which  the  under 
current  flows.  We  read  of  deieats  and  victories.  But  we 
know  that  nations  may  be  miserable  amidst  victories  and 
prosperous  amidst  defeats.  We  read  of  the  fall  of  wise 
ministers  and  of  the  rise  of  profligate  favorites.  But  we 
must  remember  how  small  a  proportion  the  good  or  evil 
effected  by  a  single  statesman  can  bear  to  the  good  or  evil 
of  a  great  social  system. 

e.  But  if  courage  intrinsically  consists  in  the  defiance 
of  danger  and  pain,  the  life  of  the  Indian  is  a  continual 
exhibition  of  it.    He  lives  in  a  state  of  perpetual  hostility 


308  EXERCISES 

and  risk.  Peril  and  adventure  are  congenial  to  his  nature; 
or  rather  seem  necessary  to  arouse  his  faculties  and  to  give 
an  interest  to  his  existence.  Surrounded  by  hostile  tribes, 
whose  mode  of  warfare  is  by  ambush  and  surprisal,  he  is 
always  prepared  for  fight,  and  lives  with  his  weapons  in  his 
hands.  As  the  ship  careers  in  fearful  singleness  through 
the  solitudes  of  ocean; — as  the  bird  mingles  among  clouds 
and  storms,  and  wings  its  way,  a  mere  speck,  across  the 
pathless  fields  of  air; — so  the  Indian  holds  his  course, 
silent,  solitary,  but  undaunted  through  the  boundless  bosom 
of  the  wilderness.  His  expeditions  may  vie  in  distance 
and  danger  with  the  pilgrimage  of  the  devotee,  or  the 
crusade  of  the  knight-errant.  He  traverses  vast  forests, 
exposed  to  the  hazards  of  lonely  sickness,  of  lurking  ene- 
mies, and  pining  famine.  Stormy  lakes,  those  great  inland 
seas,  are  no  obstacles  to  his  wanderings:  in  his  light  canoe 
of  bark  he  sports,  like  a  feather,  on  their  waves,  and  darts, 
with  the  swiftness  of  an  arrow,  down  the  roaring  rapids 
of  the  rivers.  His  very  subsistence  is  snatched  from  the 
midst  of  toil  and  peril.  He  gains  his  food  by  the  hard- 
ships and  dangers  of  the  chase:  he  wraps  himself  in  the 
spoils  of  the  bear,  the  panther,  and  the  buffalo,  and  sleeps 
among  the  thunders  of  the  cataract. 

9.  Comment  upon  the  structure  of  the  following 
sentences : 

a.  He  is  supposed  to  have  fallen,  by  his  father's  death, 
into  the  hands  of  his  uncle,  a  vintner,  near  Charing  Cross, 
who  sent  him  for  some  time  to  Dr.  Busby,  at  Westminster; 
but,  not  intending  to  give  him  any  education  beyond  that  of 
the  school,  took  him,  when  he  was  well  advanced  in  lit- 
erature, to  his  own  house,  where  the  earl  of  Dorset,  cele- 
brated for  patronage  of  genius,  found  him  by  chance,  as 
Burnet  relates,  reading  Horace,  and  was  so  well  pleased 


EXERCISES  309 

with  his  proficiency  that  he  undertook  the  care  and  cost  of 
his  academical  education. 

5.  I  think  you  will  find  my  Latin  exercises,  at  all  events, 
as  good  as  my  cousin's. 

c.  I  tried  to  match  the  ribbons  she  gave  me,  during 
my  stay  in  town. 

d.  The  master  of  the  ship  continued  his  course  at  full 
speed  in  thick  weather,  when  he  must  have  known  that  his 
vessel  was  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  the  headlands, 
without  taking  any  steps  to  verify  his  position. 

e.  The  spirit  of  the  suffering  people  of  France  found 
its  embodiment  in  Joan  of  Arc,  whose  execution  left  a  dark 
stain  on  the  English  escutcheon,  though  her  trial  took 
place  at  the  instance  of  the  University  of  Paris,  and  al- 
most all  concerned  in  it  were  Frenchmen  of  the  Burgundian 
party,  while  the  belief  in  sorcery  was  the  superstition  of 
the  age,  and  Joan  owed  to  it  her  victories  as  well  as  her 
cruel  death. 

10.  Rewrite  the  following  sentences  so  as  to  put  the 
emphasis  on  different  parts  of  the  sentence : 

a.    A   momentous   and   auspicious   change   came   noise- 
lessly and  almost  in  disguise  about  this  time. 
h.    I  abhor  lying  from  the  depths  of  my  soul. 

c.  Romulus,  according  to  the  ancient  legend,  founded 
Rome. 

d.  The  poet's  art  is  the  noblest  of  all  arts. 

e.  Of  all  beings  it  might  seem  as  if  she,  held  apart 
from  him,  far  apart  at  last  in  the  dim  Eternity,  were  the 
only  one  he  had  ever  with  his  whole  strength  of  affection 
loved. 

11.  Rearrange  or  recast  the  following  sentences  in 
periodic  form: 


310  EXERCISES 

a.  It  was  a  poor  day  for  the  game,  so  far  as  the  specta- 
tors were  concerned. 

6.  It  cannot  be  too  deeply  impressed  on  the  mind  that 
application  is  the  price  to  be  paid  for  mental  acquisitions, 
and  that  it  is  as  absurd  to  expect  them  without  it  as  to  hope 
for  a  harvest  where  we  have  not  sown  the  seed. 

c.  The  German  drama  is  the  glory  of  our  contemporary 
European  literature;  while  the  French  is  its  disgrace. 

d.  The  vision  of  life  fell  too  powerfully  and  too  early 
upon  me,  as  upon  others  scattered  thinly  by  tens  and 
twenties  over  every  thousand  years. 

e.  It  is  Homer's  invention  that  strikes  us  principally, 
on  whatever  side  we  may  contemplate  him. 

/.  A  few  steps  behind  came  an  officer  in  a  scarlet  and 
embroidered  uniform  cut  in  a  fashion  old  enough  to  have 
been  worn  by  the  Duke  of  Marlborough. 

g.  The  company  at  the  wedding  awaited  his  arrival  with 
impatience,  trusting  that  the  strange  awe,  which  had  gath- 
ered over  him  throughout  the  day,  would  now  be  dispelled. 

12.  Comment  upon  the  following  definitions : 

a.    Capital  is  the  accumulated  stock  of  human  labor. 
h.     Education  is  training  for  complete  living. 

c.  Education  is  training  for  social  efficiency. 

d.  Poetry  is  at  bottom  a  criticism  of  life. 

e.  Lyric  poetry  is  the  expression  of  the  personal  feel- 
ings of  the  poet  translated  into  rhythms  analogous  to  the 
nature  of  his  emotions. 

/.     Tin  is  a  metal  lighter  than  gold. 
g.    Logic  is  the  art  of  reasoning. 
h.    Cheese  is  a  caseous  preparation  of  milk. 
i.    A  state  is  an  ethnic  unit  which  lies  within  a  geo- 
graphical unit. 
j.    Thunder  is  a  sound  following  a  flash  of  lightning. 


EXERCISES  311 

h.  A  college  is  an  institution  for  the  education  of  young 
men. 

I.    A  republic  is  a  government  by  the  people. 

m.  Government  is  an  institution  created  by  the  people 
for  the  protection  of  their  lives  and  liberties. 

w.    A  bachelor  is  an  unmarried  man. 

o.  A  gentleman  is  a  man  who  has  no  visible  means  of 
support. 

p.     Spiritual  is  that  which  is  not  material. 

13.  Wherein,  if  at  all,  are  the  following  classifica- 
tions faulty? 

a.  Students  may  be  divided  naturally  into  three  groups, 
— the  athletic,  the  idle,  and  the  industrious. 

h.  The  chief  poetic  forms  are  the  epic,  the  narrative 
poem,  the  lyric,  the  elegy,  the  ode,  and  the  sonnet. 

c.  Education:  primary,  secondary,  collegiate,  technical, 
scientific,  and  professional. 

14.  Comment  upon  the  reasoning  in  the  following: 

a.    He  who  is  content  with  what  he  has  is  truly  rich. 

No  envious  man  is  content  with  what  he  has. 

No  envious  man,  therefore,  is  truly  rich. 
6.    If  this  candidate  used  money  to  secure  his  election, 
he  deserved  defeat. 

But  he  did  not  use  money  for  this  purpose. 

Therefore  he  did  not  deserve  defeat. 

c.  Whatever  abridges  liberty  abridges  happiness. 
But  law  abridges  liberty. 

Therefore  law  abridges  happiness. 

d.  No  sensible  man  is  indifferent  to  money. 
This  man  is  not  indifferent  to  money. 
Therefore  he  is  a  sensible  man. 


312  EXERCISES 

e.  "  He  has  no  appreciation  of  beauty,  for  he  has  no 
taste  for  pictures." 

/.  "  War  is  a  blessing,  not  an  evil.  Show  me  the  nation 
that  has  ever  become  great  without  blood-letting." 

g.  "  No  reason  can  be  given  why  the  general  happiness 
is  desirable  except  that  each  person,  as  far  as  he 
believes  it  to  be  attainable,  desires  his  own  happi- 
ness. .  .  .  Each  person^s  happiness  is  a  good  to 
that  person,  and  the  general  happiness,  therefore,  a 
good  to  the  aggregate  of  persons." 

fe.  "Whatever  benefits  industry,  benefits  the  country; 
and  this  measure,  if  it  becomes  law,  will  cause  fac- 
tories to  spring  up  where  now  there  is  nothing  but 
waste  and  desolation." 

i,  "  I  am  sure  he  must  have  known  of  the  plan ;  for  only 
members  of  the  committee  knew  of  it,  and  he  was 
a  member  of  the  committee." 

j,  "  There  should  be  no  restriction  of  debate  in  Congress, 
because  freedom  of  speech  is  one  of  our  most  sacred 
rights." 

15.  Analyze  Stevenson's  descriptive  method  in  his 
picture  of  the  Sea  Fogs,  with  regard  to, 

a.  The  selection  and  grouping  of  details. 

6.  The  means  employed  to  indicate  the  point  of  view. 

c.  The  use  of  movement. 

d.  The  means  used  to  secure  vividness. 

16.  Analyze   Hawthorne's   The   Ambitious   Guest 
from  the  point  of  view  of, 

a.    Unity. 
6.    Plot. 


EXERCISES  313 

c.  Characterization. 

d.  Setting. 

e.  The  moral. 
/.  Diction. 

17.  Determine  roughly  the  relative  proportions  of 
description  and  narration  in  Irving  *s  Eip  Van  Winkle. 


INDEX 


Accuracy  in  the  choice  of  words, 

47 
Action,  243,  244 
Alliteration,  189 
Ambiguous  term,  The,  132, 183 
Analogy,  The  argument  from, 

130-131 
Antecedent  probability,  129 
Arguing  beside  the  point,  133- 

134 
Argumentation,  nature  of,  110- 

112 
Arnold,  Matthew,  25,  32,  120 
Association  of  ideas,  laws  of,  9 
Authority,  The  argument  from, 

128 

Baker,  G.  P.,  115 
Baker  and  Huntington,  130 
Begging  the  question,  133 
Beginning  and  ending  of  the 

composition,  11-12 
Bigelow,  Frank  H.,  98 
Bookman,  The,  108 
Borrowing  thought,  4 
Brewster,  E.  T.,  101 
Brief,  The,  136-137 
Brown,  John,  18 
Brown,  Norris,  165 
Bryce,  James,  84 
Burroughs,  John,  5,  6,  9,  71, 

227 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  212 
Century,  The,  227 
Characterization,  236-239,  243 
Choice  of  words.  The,  43 
Circumstantial  evidence,  kinds 

of,  128 
Classification,  65;  rules  of,  67 


Clearness,  in  the  choice  of 
words,  44;  in  exposition,  53 

Coherence,  in  the  composition, 
8-9;  in  the  paragraph,  24;  in 
the  sentence,  35 

Composition,  fallacy  of,  134 

Congruity,  188 

Connotation,  187 

Conviction,  113-114 

Crawshaw,  W.  H.,  81 

Creighton,  J.  E.,  152, 153 

Criticism,  74 

Dana,  R.  H,,  99,  220 
Darwin,  Charles,  33,  87,  112 
Deductive  reasoning,  144,  151 
Definition,  logical,  58-59;  test- 
ing the  validity  of  a,  59-61 
DeQuincey,  Thomas,  189 
Description,  nature  of,  191-193, 
195;    effectiveness    in,   196; 
point  of  view  in,  199;  vivid- 
ness in,  211 
Development  of  the  paragraph 

topic,  16-22 
Dialogue,  253-254 
Dickens,  Charles,  214 
Digressions  in  narration,  248 
Division,  logical,  65;  rules  of, 
67;  the  fallacy  of,  134 

Ease,  186 

Elements  of  narration,  234 
Eliot,  George,  19,  192 
Emphasis,  in  the  paragraph,  24; 

in  the  sentence,  41-42 
Ending,  of  the  composition,  12; 

of  the  narrative,  254-255 
Enthymemes,  146 
Euphony,  188-189 


315 


316 


INDEX 


Evidence,  125-128 

Exposition,  nature  of ,  53;  typi- 
cal moods  of,  58 ;  defining 
and  classifying,  58;  descrip- 
tive and  illustrative,  70;  criti- 
cal, 74 

Expressiveness,  186 

Fallacies,  132 

False  cause,  The,  134 

Force,  49 

Franklin,  Benjamin,  244,  256 

Garden  Magazine,  The,  90 

Harte,  Bret,  15 

Hasty  generalization,  134-135 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  202,206, 

210,  288,  287 
Hazlitt,  William,  106 
Hearn,  Lafcadio,  80,  198,  204, 

211 
Hughes,  Thomas,  253 
Huxley,  T.  H.,  63,  65,  70, 127 
Hypothesis,  152,  153 

Imitation,  1,  2,  3 
Incoherence  in    the   sentence, 

36-38 
Individuality  in  writing,  5 
Inductive  reasoning,  144,  151, 

152 
Intelligibility,  47 
Invention,  4 
Irving,  Washington,    14,  215, 

218,  269 
Issues,  defining  the,  119-120 

Jevons,  W.  S.,  118 
Jowett,  Benjamin,  21 

Laughlin,  J.  L.,  67 

Length,  of  the  paragraph,  26; 

of  the  sentence,  32'-35 
Lewes,  G.  H.,  102 
Lowell,  J.  R.,  12 

Macaulay,  Lord,  23,  30,  32 
McClure's  Magazine,  25, 101 
Minto,  W.,  1 


Models,  use  of,  3 
Moffatt,  Cleveland,  25 
Movement,  in  description,  202, 

204,  206 ;   in  narration,  250- 

251 

Narration,  nature  of,  232-234; 

elements  of,  234 
Narrowing  the  subject,  7-8 
Nation,  The,  162 
Newman,  J.  H.,  25,  32,  65,  77, 

117 

Observation,  cultivating  habits 
of,  6;  as  a  basis  of  induction, 
152 
Oppenheim,  James,  108 
Order  of  events,  248-250 
Outline,  The,  in  exposition,  54- 

55 
Outlook,  The,  157,  165 

Paragraph,  The,  function  of, 
12-13;  typical  scheme  of,  13; 
the,  topic  of,  15 ;  developing 
the  topic  of,  16-22;  unity  in, 
22;  coherence  in,  24;  em- 
phatic conclusion  in,  24 

Parkman,  Francis,  74,  262 

Periodic  sentence.  The,  43 

Persuasion,  113-116 

Phrasing,  187-188 

Planning  the  composition,  6-9 

Plot,  244,  247,  248 

Poe,  E.  A.,  235 

Point  of  view,  199-202,  209 

Popular  Science  Monthly,  The, 
98 

Premises,  establishment  of  the, 
147 

Proof.  125-126 

Proposition,  The,  117-118 

Punctuation,  39 

Reasoning,  methods  of,  144 
Ueductio  ad  dbsurdum,  135 
Refutation,  132 

Resemblance,  The  argument 
from.  130 


INDEX 


317 


Roget,  P.  M.,  48 
Roosevelt,  Theodore,  28 
Ruskin,  John,  189,  216 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  68 
Scribnefa  Magazine,  22 
Sentence,  The,  unity  in.  28-29; 

coherence  in,  35 ;  emphasis 

in,  41;  periodic  type  of,  43 
Setting,  234-235 
Shaler.  N.  S.,  96 
Sign,  The  argument  from,  129 
Slang,  45-46 
Sources  of  material,  4 
Stevenson,  R.  L.,  2,  33,  43, 192, 

195,  197,  200,  208,  221,  237, 

239 
Style,  43,  44,  186 
Suspense  in  narration,  251 
Syllogism,  The,  144-146 


Talfourd,  T.  N.,  213 
Term,  logical,  118 
Testimony,  128 
Thoreau,  H.  D.,  197 
Thurston.  R.  H.,  20 
Topic,    developing   the    para- 
graph, 16-22 
Torricelli,  154 
Transitions,  27 
Tyndall,  John,  176 

Van  Dyke,  Henry,  207,  208 
Van  Dyke,  J.  C,  72 
Variety  in  the  sentence,  41 
Verification,  152-156 
Vividness  in  description,  211 

Wallace,  A.  R.,  94,  164 
Webster,  Daniel,  135.  147 
Words,  choice  of,  43-44 


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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


